They reached the coordinates, but it was too dark to see much. She scanned the waves for a head. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
A muffled cry came from farther down the beach. “Denis, over there!” Claire yelled.
A head was just barely visible in the darkness. Claire flung off her bag and dug her jackknife from her pocket. They waded into the surf and stopped beside the woman, struggling to keep their footing in the active water. The water lapped at her neck, and her eyes were wide above the strip of duct tape over her mouth. Denis gently began removing it while Claire knelt behind her and began sawing through the wet rope. The surf knocked her over once, but she clung to the rope and scrambled back onto her feet.
“There,” Denis crooned. “You’ll be all right. You’re safe now.”
The woman began to cry softly as he comforted her. Finally, Claire’s knife sliced through the rope. They lifted her to her feet, but she was so unsteady she leaned heavily against Denis.
“Who did this?” Claire asked. The woman bit her lip but wouldn’t look at her.
“Let’s get her back to my car,” Denis said. “We’re going to freeze standing here.”
Claire shivered in the chill breeze skimming over the surf. “What’s your name?” she asked. “Who tied you up?”
The woman grew stronger as they walked, but didn’t say a word.
“Who are you?” Claire lost her patience as quickly as parents lost kids in the grocery store—in the blink of an eye. “Really? We save your life. We drag you from the surf minutes before you drown, and you can’t tell us your name? You can’t tell us who did this to you? And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me why you’re following me? Are you going to steal—”
“Claire,” Denis said. “She’s likely in shock.”
At that, the woman shook them both off and stomped across the lot to the Volvo. She fished keys from her pocket and climbed in.
“I don’t care if you’re in shock or not,” Claire yelled. “A little gratitude wouldn’t kill you.”
And she was gone in a dramatic squeal-out, red taillights disappearing down the street.
“What is wrong with people?” Claire snapped. She was stunned not only at the woman’s rudeness, but at her own failure to charm a beautiful woman. As Mima always said, “If you don’t use it, you lose it.” She’d been scolding Sochi about speaking Quechua, but it also applied to Claire losing her touch with women.
Denis dug out two towels from his trunk and they dried themselves as best they could.
“What was the point of putting that woman’s life in danger and sending me after her?”
Denis shook his head. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Once in the car, Denis turned to her. “Please do not take this the wrong way, mi hija, but I want you to leave Peru. Now.”
She set her jaw. No freaking way. Shame drove her away last time. She wasn’t going to let fear or intimidation do it this time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sochi
Wednesday, March 29
Last Friday, Sochi had invited Hudson to visit his backflap. She’d expected him to show up first thing Monday morning, but then she realized he probably didn’t want to appear too eager. When he finally showed up in her office on Wednesday, Sochi bit back a triumphant grin. She knew he’d be unable to resist. She led him down the narrow stairs, advising him not to trust the rickety handrail. At the bottom, she held up her hand and commanded, “Turn your back.”
Hudson did so, turning toward the stairs leading back up to the CNTP offices while Sochi tapped in the access code.
With a satisfying click, the vault unlocked. “Okay,” she said, swinging open the heavy door. She flipped on the bank of switches, but even with all the lights on, the CNTP vault could have been the set for an adventure movie, a room with deep shadows and towering shelves filled with mystery, the somberness broken by the sly twinkle of gold and gems. It smelled of dust despite the constant air filtration.
Sochi watched Hudson’s face as he stepped into the packed room. He was trying not to look impressed but was failing. “Nice,” was all he said.
“Your backflap is over here.” A wide metal cabinet with shallow drawers was nestled between two shelf units groaning under the weight of Moche pottery. She unlocked a middle drawer and slid it open. The backflap, about twenty inches long, rested on a firm cushion of foam.
Hudson stood at her elbow, eyes gleaming. “I’d forgotten how amazing this was.” He reached for it, then hesitated. “May I?”
Sochi nodded.
He cradled it like a baby, running his fingers over the dull gold.
“I’ve never really understood the concept of the backflap,” Sochi said. “The thing dangles over the warrior’s butt. But why? He’s afraid someone’s going to stick a spear up there?”
Hudson chuckled. “Or something else.” He nodded toward the nearest Moche water vessel, topped with the figurines of two men having sex.
Sochi waited while Hudson took his fill of the backflap, the most significant find of his career. He finally placed it back into the drawer.
“I think NanoTrax works,” she said.
“My source told me it didn’t.”
“Everybody lies, Hudson. Maybe the developers decided to keep the product to themselves. Fool the Americans into thinking it didn’t work, then be free to use it at will without suspicion.”
Hudson shook his head. “Nah. Sounds too farfetched.”
“Push harder. Find another source. Get me a sample.”
“I told you. The stuff doesn’t work.”
“No. It must. Get me some and the backflap is yours.”
“I don’t know how—”
“Figure it out.”
Hudson flung up both hands. “Christ. You and Claire are just alike. You only focus on what’s important to you. You give absolutely no thought to anyone else and what he might want or need.”
“We’re not alike,” Sochi snapped. “She’s so ambitious she’s unwilling to sacrifice her career for anything or anyone.”
“What about you? You’re just as obsessed with Peruvian artifacts. It’s scary to think how far you might go on behalf of a few dusty pots.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you two deserve whatever pain you’ve inflicted on each other.”
This was dangerous territory. “Get me NanoTrax and I’ll see that more of the budget is allocated specifically to Chan Chan excavation.”
“I can’t be bought.”
“Sure you can. You and I will come to an agreement—we just haven’t yet found what will motivate you.”
Hudson pressed his lips together, then scraped a hand through his surfer hair. He scanned the dim room. “I hate that you’re going to use my backflap as bait for Higuchi.”
“We’ll announce some stupendous find, like Chaco’s tomb, then plant the backflap there.”
“You’ll need more than just the backflap to convince the looters the site is real.”
“We haven’t gotten that far in the plan yet.”
Hudson worried his lower lip. “Let me choose the other items to dangle in front of Higuchi.”
Sochi’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
“Because I’ve never been part of an archaeological sting operation before. It’ll look good on the résumé.”
Sochi glared at him. “I’d have final approval,” she said.
“Of course. I get NanoTrax for you, help choose the bait, then when you’ve caught Higuchi with his fingers in the cookie jar and recovered the backflap, you’ll return it to Chan Chan.”
Sochi licked her lips. “Deal.” They shook on it, actually smiling at each other.
“You know she’s back, right?” Hudson said.
Sochi nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Are you going to see her?”
The image of Claire in the church, only inches away, filled her vision. “No reason to. It’s been over for years.”
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Hudson grimaced. “Even if the two of you never see each other again, it’ll never be over.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just an observation.”
Sochi swung the door closed behind them and engaged the alarm as Hudson mounted the stairs. “Keep your stupid observations to yourself.”
*
After Hudson left, Sochi picked up her phone and keyed in the number. “Denis? It’s Sochi Castillo.”
“Delighted.”
“Yeah, I’m not. I didn’t appreciate being set up at the church the other day.”
“I was just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” She cleared her throat. “The CNTP, however, does. We’re planning an operation that requires someone of your…skill and experience. Please come to my office right now.”
“Ahh. Well, I’m no longer a consultant, so—”
“I’m sorry to be unclear. I’m not inviting you. I’m not even asking. I’m telling you to come.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Denis, you and I have been on opposite sides for a number of years, but we’ve always managed to get along.”
“Thanks to Claire.”
“Yes, well, she’s no longer part of the equation. The CNTP has never looked very hard at the sources for your vast collection of pre-Columbian artifacts. It would be a shame to be forced to take that step now.”
More silence. “I do not respond well to threats, my dear, but I will be there.”
Sochi hung up and exhaled loudly. She felt like someone moving pieces on a chessboard without a deep understanding of the game. She needed Hudson to come through with the NanoTrax. She needed funding. She needed Denis to help set the trap.
An hour later, Denis appeared to be lightly perspiring, even though the wide-open window in Sochi’s office pulled in a soft breeze. Denis Valerga purchased looted goods, making him a criminal in the halls of the CNTP.
After he settled his bulk into a chair, she rolled tight up against her desk and rested her arms on the polished wood. “The CNTP needs your help.”
Denis’s mouth curled in a wry smile. “I am your eager servant.”
“What we speak of today must remain in this room, to be shared with no one.” He nodded. “Do you know Carlos Higuchi?”
“Not personally, but I believe him to be a despicable character. Much of the treasures leaving this country end up in his collection.”
She explained their plan to set a trap for Higuchi using Chaco’s tomb, the backflap, and a few other artifacts as bait. “But we need your help luring him in. We were hoping you, as a prominent collector, might have some ideas.”
Denis tented his fingertips under his generous chin. “Higuchi will never believe your tale of Chaco’s tomb. For him to believe, the site must be heavily guarded. Yet a tomb so protected cannot be looted.”
“We were hoping you could flash around a few items and claim they were from the king’s tomb.”
“You realize that Claire has returned and that she searches for the very tomb you will claim to have found.”
Sochi’s heart skipped a beat. Claire would have to be told so she didn’t inadvertently ruin their operation. “Someone will let her know.”
“Higuchi will smell a trap if the CNTP claims to have found Chaco’s tomb. But if he believed that a looter had found the tomb and meant to keep its location secret, he would be more tempted.” He looked her in the eye. “If Higuchi thought La Bruja had uncovered the backflap and other treasures, he would go to great lengths to steal from her.”
Sochi’s brain began to ache with the complexity of it all. “Okay, good idea. We’ll set things up so Higuchi steals not from some fake tomb, but from La Bruja.” She swallowed. “How would we do that?”
“I know how to contact her man. You put the artifacts in a van. I’ll let it be known I am about to purchase items from La Bruja. Higuchi’s men will steal from the van, or steal the van itself, and you’ll follow.” He coughed politely. “You understand, of course, that I am not in the habit of purchasing artifacts from looters.”
Sochi bit back a smile. “Of course.” Years ago, Claire had convinced Sochi that Denis, despite his criminal purchases, really was one of the good guys.
Denis nodded but said nothing. It took Sochi a second to realize he was waiting.
“And in exchange for your help, you are asking…?”
“A simple thing. Freedom from threats such as you leveled against me on the phone. While you may not think so, you and I are on the same side as La Bruja. The two of you have more in common than you think.”
Sochi felt as if an elephant had just plopped itself down onto her chest. She kept her face impassive and polite. There was no way Denis could know La Bruja’s identity. “As long as I am with the CNTP, you need not worry.”
“Excellent.” He rose to his feet, extended his hand, and their meeting was over.
*
Mima never answered her door on the first knock since it took her a while to weave her way through her cats and sewing projects. Sochi could hear her grandmother’s heels clicking on the floor.
“Sochi, sweetheart, come in!” Mima dressed as if she might be called on to visit the president or preside over a planning meeting for a charity gala. Today her suit was a soft silk, peach, with a flowered blouse.
“Mima, you look beautiful.” Her grandmother barely came up to Sochi’s shoulder, but had managed to terrify all her grandchildren at one time or another with her stern gaze.
Her grandmother waved off the compliment. “You have come for lunch?”
Sochi smiled, caught. “Well, I needed to talk with you and I was in the neighborhood.”
“Ha. Your Mima knows you. Sit down. I will cook us some eggs.”
Sochi sat. “Mima, have you had any visits from strangers?”
Mima cracked the eggs smartly. “Strangers? No.”
“Have there been any people hanging around the apartment building that you don’t recognize?”
As the eggs cooked, Mima turned to her, eyes bright. “What is this about? Are you in trouble?”
“Me? No. It’s just…” Sochi chewed her lip. Was Mima really in danger? Was Sochi just making too much of Deep Throat’s threat? “In my job I sometimes run into people who are less than honest, less than respectful.” Mima nodded. “Well, sometimes that person can turn out to be someone you thought was a good guy.”
Mima bustled around the kitchen. “This is true in all walks of life, not just the CNTP.”
“Right. Well, one of the supposed ‘good guys’ thinks he can control me by threatening my family.”
Mima made a disgusted noise. “I’m not afraid.”
“Is your cell phone charged?”
Mima winced. Sochi sighed, pulling out the new cell phone. “Look, this is a really easy one to use.”
“I hate them.” She set down two plates of fried eggs and corn salsa.
“I know, but your family wants to know you’re safe. We worry about you.”
“I’m eighty, not one hundred.”
“See this big red button? I’ve programmed the phone to text me when you push the button. The text says Help. It doesn’t have to be a huge problem—maybe you can’t reach the sugar on the top shelf—but you need to push the button.” She handed her the phone. “Will you do that for me?”
“This isn’t necessary.”
“Mima, I can’t do my job if I must worry about you.”
With a resigned nod, Mima put the phone on the table. “I do this for you. Now will you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Go on a date. Get out. Meet someone. You are too young to be so sad.”
Sochi focused on her food. “I went on a sort-of-date last weekend.”
“And?”
“We had a great time. Maria and I surfed at Huanchaco.”
“She is a nice girl?”
“Yes, and very rich, Mima. She’s a Menendez.”
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“Huh. Big deal. I wish you would call that nice girl Claire. I miss her.”
“Mima, no. I told you what she did to me. I’m not calling her, even though she’s back in Peru.” Sochi bit her lip.
Mima’s eyes widened. “She is back? This is very interesting.”
Sochi put the dirty dishes in the sink. “Forget Claire. Please keep this phone with you at all times.”
Back in her car, Sochi scrolled through her phone’s contact list. Claire was still on it. Maybe Mima was right. Maybe they should just get together and come to some sort of closure.
No. She had too much pride for that.
*
Would this day ever end? She’d been ready to head home when she’d gotten the alarmed call from Rigo. There’d been a fight.
Just before she reached the turnoff to the sandy road that led to the dig site, Sochi braked and pulled over. “Gods,” she muttered as she reached for the black bag with her wig and contact case in the backseat. The last thing she needed was to march into a dig as herself.
One of the men waited for her, signaling with a flashlight so she’d know where to turn off the highway. She picked him up and drove down the rutted road.
She looked him over. “You aren’t hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. Playing football makes me quick on my feet.”
When she stopped the car, her headlights caught the men clustered near Rigo’s van, some holding T-shirts against bleeding wounds. Others sprawled on the ground, arms thrown over their eyes as if in despair. She shut off the engine, furious. She’d warned Rigo about this.
She leapt from the car, then forced herself to calm down. “Is anyone hurt badly?”
Rigo stepped forward. “Cuts and bruises only.”
Bare-chested Tomas held his T-shirt against his head, rivulets of blood trickling down his bicep like slender snakes. She moved his hand away, wincing at the deep gash running from his temple back into his hairline. “You need stitches,” she said. He shrugged. She pressed her fists against her hips. “Okay, spill it. What happened?”
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