The Moche Warrior

by Lyn Hamilton

  When it came right down to it, the trick to surveillance, Hilda and I found, was nothing like trying to keep from being seen. It was trying to keep from falling asleep. Hilda and I took turns napping in the backseat while the other watched the house. Sometimes we watched on foot, at other times we parked the truck down the street where we could watch both doors. We alternated watching posts not just to avoid drawing attention to ourselves by staying in one place for too long, but also to keep ourselves moving.

  That evening, as they had before, Carla and the Man drove the three short blocks to El Mochica for dinner. This in itself was not surprising: El Mo boasted the only white tablecloth dining in town. Cesar appeared to eat there once again, and Carlos’s reserved table remained vacant. Lucho held up the bar with his friends.

  While Laforet and the others dined or drank in style, Hilda and I ate barbecued chicken sandwiches from a polleria down the street. If there is a national dish in Peru, I decided, it was chicken, pollo. There are as many pollerias in Peru as there are pizzerias at home.

  “I'm going to grow feathers any minute,” Hilda groaned as I handed her another chicken sandwich. We were sitting in the truck outside El Mo. “And the sandwich after this, I’ll start to cluck. I sincerely regret I didn’t eat Ines's lovely dinners while I had the chance, and if I don’t get to sleep in a real bed soon, my back will never recover.” I nodded sympathetically.

  “For some reason,” she went on, waving her sandwich in the direction of the bar, “I thought this smuggling operation would work like a well-oiled machine. I have no idea why I thought that: I know absolutely nothing about smuggling, but nevertheless, that is what I thought. I had this idea we’d hand Laforet the ear spool, and then everyone would spring into action, including us, and we’d follow them, and then call in the local police force, all four of them. I had no idea smuggling could be this boring,” she sighed.

  “I don’t know how well this operation ran at one time,” I replied. “It probably once did run like a well-oiled machine. But it must have gone seriously off the rails just over two years ago, when the parcel containing three pre-Columbian objects was in transit to a Toronto gallery, when the gallery owner—the sole proprietor, I might add—died. And he died under exceptional circumstances, circumstances that guaranteed that the police were all over the place.

  “There would be nothing the smugglers could do to recover the antiquities that wouldn’t bring suspicion on them. So they did the only thing they could. They waited. I recall Steve saying that Laforet hadn’t been seen around here for a couple of years, that he was farther south for a while. They waited, and then the objects finally came up for auction at Molesworth & Cox.

  “Theoretically, it should have been straightforward. You send someone to buy them back. It doesn’t really matter what you have to pay, as long as they are considered replicas, because they are worth a fortune. But then it went wrong again. Two people, not one, came to get them. Lizard, Ramon Cervantes, a customs agent from Lima, and someone I refer to as the Spider. It’s possible they were in this together: Spider didn’t have a paddle for bidding that I could see, so perhaps that was Lizard’s job. But I don’t think so. They didn’t look like pals to me. In any event, neither of them got what they wanted. I did, and then the peanut disappeared, and finally Lizard ended up dead in my storage room and the florero is gone. The only person that could have killed him is Spider. Who else in Toronto would be after a customs agent from Lima?

  “Then I go to Ancient Ways in New York, and after I’ve been there, mentioned the Toronto dealer’s name, and asked for Moche artifacts, Edmund Edwards ends up dead too.

  “On the surface, at least, things don’t appear to be going too well for our smuggling ring. But now Laforet is back in town. Why? Or more precisely, why is he still here when Carlos is dead, even if no one but us has noticed, and the whole town is in turmoil because of a huaquero’s death and because of the impending rain? Is it because the threat to the organization was Lizard, or perhaps the old man in New York, or even Carlos—although I still think Paraiso must figure in this somewhere—and all are now dead, or is it because something very big has been found, something worth taking a risk for? I think we need to keep watch, because something is going to happen.”

  “You’re thinking of Puma’s treasure, the one you get to through cracks in the rock, aren’t you?” Hilda said.

  “I am,” I replied.

  It was at about this point that Tracey and Ralph showed up, parking the second truck just outside El Mo.

  “Seems to me the only person who isn’t here tonight is that pal of yours, the Inca reincarnated,” Hilda said.

  “Manco Capac,” I said. “You’re right. It’s the same crew as last night, except for him. Why don’t I, while Tracey and Ralph are in there, take the second truck—I have a set of keys—and go out to the commune to see if he’s there? I’ve also been thinking about Carlos and that little ruined house out back of Paraiso. I think while everyone is here and comfortably settled for an hour or two, I could just take another look.”

  “Okay,” Hilda replied. “I’ll hold the fort while you’re gone. Be careful.”

  I was greeted at the commune by a rather wild-eyed teenager who went by the name of Solar Flare. Despite my aversion to these nicknames, I had to admit the name suited her. Her reddish-blond hair radiated straight out from her head in spikes, and she spoke in bursts, seemingly unrelated words strung together as if in challenge to the listener. I asked if Puma and Pachamama had been heard from.

  “No!” she replied. “Gone. Manco Capac says they won’t be back!” Did he now?

  I wondered what would make him so certain of that. “Is Manco Capac here?”

  She shook her head. “New moon.”

  “And that means?”

  “Retreat.”

  “What’s he retreating from?” I asked.

  “Not what, to,” she replied.

  “Okay,” I said. “What is he retreating to?”

  “Mountains,” she replied. “Meditating.”

  “You’re saying he’s gone up in the mountains to meditate, are you?” This conversation was hard work.

  “Yes,” she said. “Preparing for the end of the world. I’m preparing for it too. It’s soon. Everywhere but here,” she added.

  “What a relief,” I said. “Do you know exactly where he goes in the mountains?”

  “Secret,” she said, shaking her head. “A place with special power. Spoil it if others knew about it.”

  “Of course,” I said. “He goes every new moon, does he? How long does he stay away?”

  “Two or three days,” she replied. "He comes back much refreshed.”

  I’ll bet he does, I thought. Knowing his tastes, I was willing to wager my last dollar—which I was getting close to, come to think of it, unless one counted my ill-gotten gains as a huaquero—that every month Manco Capac, using meditation as an excuse, probably headed off somewhere like the Lima Sheraton or its equivalent, and spent a couple of days swilling expensive wines and trying his luck at the slot machines in the lobby. Manco Capac, I was more and more convinced, was a fake.

  I left Solar Flare preparing herself for the end of the world, and headed out for the highway, parking the truck in my by now regular space behind a little clump of trees and the old hut. The spot was near the old riverbed, and to my surprise, I could hear the rush of water in what earlier in the day had been the merest trickle of a stream. They must be right about rain up in the mountains, I remember thinking, as I turned away from the water and crossed the sands to the ruin.

  It was very dark—the new moon, of course—and, not wanting to use my flashlight, I had to stop from time to time to make sure I was heading in the right direction. All was quiet at Paraiso when I got there. Carlos Montero was, as Hilda had said, nowhere to be seen. The padlock was still on the door to the ruin.

  While the walls of the place were not particularly high, the days when I could haul myself up and over even a
low wall were long gone, if indeed they’d ever existed. There were a couple of wooden crates, empty, I discovered, very close to the wall, near a place where the wall was lowest, its bricks fallen away in disrepair. There were many footprints there, I could see, as I beamed my flashlight about for a second or two. With a little effort, I moved the crates up against the wall at the lowest point and climbed up on them, then onto the top of the wall itself. On the other side there was a pile of old bricks that provided a step of sorts down.

  I turned on my flashlight and swung it around the interior. It looked deserted: a couple of old pop cans, some empty paint cans, and the ubiquitous foam coffee cups were all I could see. In the center of the space was a very large square of woven bamboo matting, the type I’d seen used as fencing to enclose construction sites in town. The only thing that struck me as strange about it was that it looked very pristine and new, unlike the rest of the junk that had been tossed aside in the area.

  Just to make sure, I lifted the corner of the matting. Underneath it was an extraordinary sight: a round hole about ten feet across that had around its perimeter man-made stairs, carved into the rock, that spiraled down into the earth. I aimed my light down into the hole, and saw that the steps snaked down about twenty-five feet. At the bottom was a faint glimmer of water. It looked to be a natural formation of some sort, almost a chute down into the ground, into which someone, a very long time ago, had carved steps.

  I hesitated for a moment or two, not terribly comfortable with heights. The stairs were very narrow, open on the inside, so one false step would send me plummeting downward. Then I thought of Puma. The commune was within easy walking distance of this place. Had he, in his marijuana haze, come here? Perhaps the footprints outside the wall were his, and he’d got in the same way I had. Cities of gold you get to through cracks in the rocks, he’d said, the greatest treasure ever. I stuck my flashlight in my belt, directing the beam downward, and started my descent, pulling the woven matting back in its place over my head.

  After one circuit of the perimeter on the spiral, I could no longer stand upright, but had to sit on the stairs and lower myself step by step, ducking under overhanging rock as I went. At last I stepped into the pool of water only a few inches deep at the bottom.

  I was in a rock chamber not that much larger than the chute down which I had come, maybe fifteen feet in diameter, probably naturally formed by the action of water on limestone. To my right was a door, leading where I could not imagine. Against the wall to my left was a table covered in packing materials and three wooden crates, none of them yet sealed shut.

  In all three crates were rows and rows of cresoles, the little pots found in tombs, each identical, made in the shape of a round man. All of them, as near as I could tell, were fakes, reproductions from the factory above. The workmanship was not particularly good, and they were absolutely identical, each made from the same mold. But why hide these in some subterranean vault? My idea about putting the antiquity in with a number of fakes should have meant that the objects were handled using the normal channels, not hidden away down here. There was also a sizable dolly which could transport the crates. But where from down here would you take them? You’d need a crane rather than a dolly to get them up to the surface.

  I looked under the first layer of little pots and found a second, all the same. I checked the third layer. By now it was getting monotonous, rows and rows of not particularly exceptional fake ceramics. There must be something here, I told myself, keep looking. From the bottom layer, I picked a cresole at random and took it out to have a better look, turning it around and then looking inside. Small plastic bag, white powder: cocaine. It had to be. Cocaine was being shipped out in little Moche pots. The Paradise Crafts Factory was more aptly named than I ever would have guessed.

  I went to the second crate and checked the second layer of pots, all empty, and then the third layer. I could hardly believe what I saw. Gold peanut beads, dozens of them, some of them the size of my fist, gleamed in the beam of my flashlight. Beneath them lay a golden scepter, gold breastplate, back flap, nose flap, and ear spools, not unlike the one I’d held, of gold and turquoise and other stones. I took a look at the shape of the helmet and tried to recall what Steve had told me about Moche rituals. “It’s the warrior priest,” I gasped at last. “They’ve found the tomb of a warrior priest!”

  I never made it to the third box. As I reached it, I thought I heard a scraping sound above me, and tiny pinpoints of light showed through the matting above. I extinguished my flashlight quickly and moved toward the door that shouldn’t by any rights lead anywhere. There was nowhere else to hide. I heard the matting being pulled off the entrance to the chamber and a grunt as someone lowered themselves onto the steps. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. Open, please, I said to myself. I yanked and the door opened. I stepped behind it, pulling the door closed behind me. I had no idea where I was, and was afraid to turn on the flashlight even for a second. I just stood there, shivering, partly in fear, but also because the air was cold and damp, with an unmistakable odor of something starting to rot. I heard a splash as the intruder stepped off into the water at the bottom.

  Then, much to my surprise, the lights came on. The electrical cord, I thought. They’ve strung a cord out from the factory to light this place. There must have been a switch in the chamber which I had not seen, although it would have never occurred to me to look for a light switch in an underground chamber. I was in a long, man-made tunnel heading some distance underground. There were wires strung the length of it, and from time to time a dim bulb.

  I felt terribly exposed standing there. I would be seen instantly if whoever was out there chose to open the door. On the plus side, however; I could see where I was going, and I knew where Carlos Montero had gone. His crumpled body had been stuffed into a little niche in the tunnel wall.

  I turned and plunged down the tunnel. The ground rose slightly as I went along, and after about 500 yards or so, maybe more, I took a right turn and found myself at the foot of a wooden staircase leading upward. Cautiously I inched my way up to the underside of a trapdoor. I pressed my ear to the wood and listened. I could near nothing. I raised the door an inch or two. Total darkness greeted me. I pushed the door back and climbed up, shutting it behind me. I was in a little hut, about eight by ten, and windowless. There were four other crates there. Listening at the door once more, I again heard nothing, and let myself out.

  It took me a second or two to get my bearings, but when my eyes adjusted, I could see the outline of the Andes against the sky. Behind the hut was a grove of trees, and beyond that, presumably, Paraiso, although I couldn’t see it for the trees; I could see nothing to the right or the left. I found myself a hiding place not far from the hut and waited. About fifteen minutes later, a dark but familiar shape emerged from the hut with the first of the crates. It was Lucho. After the crates had been stacked, which took about a half hour in all, I’d estimate, Lucho shuffled away from the hut in the direction of the mountains for several yards, and then walked parallel to the mountain range, stopping every few yards to do something I couldn’t see. I could smell gasoline. Having walked about fifty yards away from the hut, he turned left, walked about twenty feet, and then turned left and made his way back, then an equal distance past the hut, stooping over at regular intervals again, before making his way back.

  Finally he went back into the hut, and I heard the trapdoor slam.

  I edged my way out in the direction he had come. It was still very dark, but I could make out two straight rows of painted white stones stretching off in either direction. At regular intervals between them I found, on closer examination, old paint cans stuffed with rags doused in gasoline. It's a runway, I realized, an illegal runway. Lucho, or someone else, would set the paint can contents ablaze at the right moment, and the aircraft would come in. The desert floor was hard, and packed flat, the stone markers were straight as arrows. The Moche artifacts, and the cocaine, would be gone that
night, under cover of the new moon, and with the added benefit of everyone being distracted by the possibility of flooding. There would be absolutely no way I would be able to stop them alone.

  I headed back for the truck, terrified that I’d run into Lucho. I thought the trees would provide protection, and plunged into them. Cuidado al arbolado! be damned, I thought. They were the only cover around. But it was also tough going, the thorns a constant hazard in the dark, slowing my progress, and distorting my sense of direction. Just as I was about to emerge from the forest, someone stepped out from behind a tree and shone a light directly in my eyes.

  “Rebecca, it’s you!” the voice exclaimed.

  “Puma,” I hissed. “Turn out that light. Where have you been?” For a moment I caught a glimpse of what it must be to be the parent of a teenager—the surge of emotion, part relief but also part rage, when the offspring you’ve imagined lying seriously injured, or even, God forbid, dead, in the middle of an intersection blithely reappears. I wanted to shake him and give him a good talking-to, but I didn’t have time.

  “Looking for the treasure like I wrote you. Come, you’ve gotta come with me right away,” he said, pulling on my arm.

  “Puma, I can’t right now. I’ve seen your treasure. Now I’ve got to go and get help. Why didn’t you come back to the commune or the hacienda?” I found myself asking.

  He looked exasperated. “Because they’re after me, like I told you. The Spanish. I came to get you again, but one of them was there. So I had to hide. “Come quickly,” he insisted, pulling my arm roughly. “It’s important. It’s life or death!”