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.
&
nbsp; "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 Zolars 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 percent of the treasure. The rest was to be deposited with the national court in Mexico City.
The only problem with the agreement was that the Zolars had no intention of keeping their end of the bargain. They weren't about to split the treasure with anyone.
Once the golden chain and the bulk of the treasure had been hauled to the top of the mountain, a covert operation was created to move the hoard under cover of darkness to a remote military airstrip near the great sand dunes of the Altar Desert just south of the Arizona border. There, it would be loaded aboard a commercial jet transport, painted with the markings and colors of a major airline company, and then flown to a secret distribution facility owned by the Zolars in the small city of Nador on the north coast of Morocco.
Everyone had been ferried from the hacienda to the mountaintop as soon as it became daylight. No personal effects were left behind. Only Zolar's jetliner remained, parked on the hacienda's airstrip, ready for takeoff on a moment's notice.
Loren and Rudi were released from their prison and sent over later the same morning. Ignoring Sarason's orders not to communicate with the hostages, Micki Moore had compassionately tended to their cuts and bruises and made sure they were fed a decent meal. Since there was little chance they could escape by climbing down the rocky walls of the mountain, no one guarded them and they were left on their own to wander about as they pleased.
Oxley quickly discovered the small aperture leading inside the mountain and wasted no time in directing a military work crew to enlarge it. He stayed behind to oversee the equipment staging while Zolar, Sarason, and the Moores set off down the passageway followed by a squad of engineers, who carried portable fluorescent lights.
When they reached the second demon, Micki lovingly touched its eyes, just as Shannon Kelsey had done before her. She sighed. "A marvelous piece of work."
"Beautifully preserved," Henry Moore agreed.
"It will have to be destroyed," said Sarason indifferently.
"What are you talking about?" demanded Moore.
"We can't move it. The ugly beast fills up most of the tunnel. There is no way we can drag Huascar's chain over, around, or between its legs."
Micki's face went tense with shock. "You can't destroy a masterwork of antiquity."
"We can and we will," Zolar said, backing his brother. "I agree it's unfortunate. But we don't have time for archaeological zealotry. The sculpture has to go."
Moore's pained expression slowly turned hard, and he looked at his wife and nodded. "Sacrifices must be made."
Micki understood. If they were to seize enough of the golden riches to keep them in luxury for the rest of their lives, they would have to close their eyes to the demolition of the demon.
They pushed on as Sarason lagged behind and ordered the engineers to place a charge of explosives under the demon. "Be careful," he warned them in Spanish. "Use a small charge. We don't want to cause a cave-in."
Zolar was amazed at the Moores' vast energy and enthusiasm after they encountered the crypt of the treasure guardians. If left on their own, they would have spent a week studying the mummies and the burial ornaments before pushing on to the treasure chamber.
"Let's keep going," said Zolar impatiently. "You can nose around the dead later."
Reluctantly, the Moores continued into the guardians'
living quarters, lingering only a few minutes before Sarason rejoined his brother and urged them onward.
The sudden sight of the guardian encased in calcite crystals shocked and stunned all of them, as it had Pitt and his group. Henry Moore peered intently through the translucent sarcophagus.
"An ancient Chachapoya," he murmured as if standing before a crucifix. "Preserved as he died. This is an unbelievable discovery."
"He must have been a noble warrior of very high status," said Micki in awe.
"A logical conclusion, my dear. This man had to be very powerful to bear the responsibility of guarding an immense royal treasure."
"What do you think he's worth?" asked Sarason.
Moore turned and scowled at him. "You can't set a price on such an extraordinary object. As a window to the past, he is priceless."
"I know a collector who would give five million dollars for him," said Zolar, as if he were appraising a Ming vase.
"The Chachapoya warrior belongs to science," Moore lashed back, his anger choking him. "He is a visible link to the past and belongs in a museum, not in the living room of some morally corrupt gatherer of stolen artifacts."
Zolar threw Moore an insidious look. "All right, Professor, he's yours for your share of the gold."
Moore looked agonized. His professional training as a scientist fought a war with his greed. He felt dirtied and ashamed now that he realized that Huascar's legacy went beyond mere wealth. He was overcome with regret that he was dealing with unscrupulous scum. He gripped his wife's hand, knowing without doubt she felt the same. "If that's what it takes. You've got yourself a deal."
Zolar laughed. "Now that's settled. Can we please proceed and find what we came here for?"
A few minutes later, they stood in a shoulder-to-shoulder line on the edge of the subterranean riverbank and stared mesmerized at the array of gold, highlighted by the portable fluorescent lamps carried by the military engineers. All they saw was the treasure. The sight of a river flowing through the bowels of the earth seemed insignificant.
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