The Inca Temple

by Preston W Child

  She rose up.

  "Guys, we can't just sit around and do nothing. Any ideas?"

  "I say we go round completely," Anabia suggested.

  All the men agreed. Olivia asked Reno if he recalled how he found the gold. He screwed his face in deep reflection. Reno recalled stumbling around the dark, hearing voices in his head, footfalls behind him, feeling hot breath on his neck. He did not remember how many doors he went through.

  Or that he even went through any doors.

  "I only remember turning. I don't know if I was turning around, or this temple was. It is why I didn't want to come here again. This place, it changes."

  Olivia frowned. "What do you mean it changes?"

  "It can be small." Reno brought his palm together. "And it can be big."

  He spread his hands apart. His eyes beamed with excited fear, and his voice quavered when he said, "It can be a nightmare or just a good night's dream."

  "How long did it take Coleman to find it?"

  "I don't know. I don't remember well." He shut his eyes tight and tried to remember that night, but all the memory of it was not that of a closed metal vault, the piece of gold lying on the floor and darkness. Mostly darkness.

  Deep sighs followed the end of Reno's account; one of the lamps flickered. They all turned to it. Time was running out on them swiftly. Panic tugged at the seams of Olivia's sanity. What was I doing by thinking I could, that we could always beat the odds? The odds are stacked to the uncertain skies above.

  She glanced sharply at Diggs.

  "Is the cellphone connected?"

  "Nope."

  "Do it, please."

  Diggs fixed the cable back on the cellphone. He did his magic with the box device, and a sharp hiss of static erupted into Olivia's face. As she was about to dial Andrew's number, the cellphone beeped twice. A message had come in.

  Andrew's voice filtered into the hallway, so refreshing and comely, to the point of grateful tears.

  "Hey, Olivia, hi. I understand you guys have been trying to reach me. If you get this, call me on this number. I'm in Peru, someplace called Cusco."

  Olivia's mouth opened in astonishment. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

  "Oh, what a day—" Anabia laughed.

  "Yeah, it will be good to have the priest with us at this auspicious time."

  Reno looked at Olivia and asked, "A priest is coming here?"

  "Hopefully."

  She started calling Andrew again. The phone rang once, and Andrew's voice came on.

  "Hey, Andrew?"

  "Olivia! Oh, how good to hear from you."

  "I'm glad you're safe. How did you find us?"

  "Victor. He told me—"

  "Is he with you now?"

  "No. Victor has had an accident and won't be out for weeks. He's in the hospital, Olivia—"

  She gasped. Expectant eyes questioned her. Liam mouthed, Where's Victor Borodin?

  "I'm sorry. But Victor will be fine."

  "When can you get here, Andrew? We need help."

  "I can get to the mountains in ten minutes if I get a good bike."

  Liam cupped his palm around his mouth. "Pietro is out there, somewhere, waiting."

  "Er, Andrew, there's going to be a little problem."

  "Tell me."

  Olivia told him.

  —

  Seth Kowalski squinted at the tall white man in the street. Kowalski was waiting in a police car he forced out of the local carpool. He had been waiting for this man, Andrew Gilmore. A man that very few people really knew. A man Kowalski had met a long time ago in quite a favorable circumstance.

  Kowalski slouched deeper in the car seat to avoid being seen if the man should suddenly turn around.

  And Andrew Gilmore did turn around. He glanced at the car down the road, just ten feet away from where he stood, waiting for a taxi to take him out to Apachia. That was another secret about this man: don't think about him, he would know and smell you out.

  There was only a slight resemblance to the woman, Olivia Newton.

  Kowalski blamed himself secretly for the failure of the former cardinal. He should have sent the professional that went for the former CIA agent, Lawrence Diggs, after Andrew Gilmore first.

  How was he to know the guy knew how to ride a plane? Or that stupid Emilio Batolini would be so foolish to put the job in the hands of inept Italians?

  A taxi stopped by presently. Gilmore got in and was ferried down the highway towards Machu Picchu. Kowalski had followed him only at very far distances. The man had made special purchases.

  Kowalski drove meters behind the taxi. Anything closer and Gilmore could smell him out.

  In Apachia, Gilmore stopped right in front of the police station. He walked in and came out shortly after. Then he jumped another taxi and was carried uptown.

  Kowalski darted into the police station right after.

  He asked the cop at the desk what the American wanted.

  "What American?" the cop asked.

  Kowalski looked up at the cop suspiciously. He glanced around the tables at the faces. They were all either in on the joke or Gilmore hadn't even stepped foot in here, in which case Kowalski didn't see what he saw.

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "No, sir. The only American who has come in here is you, and you are still here, sir."

  Someone snickered in the corner of the office.

  "There was a man who came in just now. He wore brown khakis, brown hair, clean jaws, and a bag. You saw him, right?"

  "Oh, yes. But he was not American. He was Italian. He didn't know English."

  "Yeah."

  Kowalski stepped back in the sun and made a call.

  "We have a problem," he said into his cellphone.

  —

  Pietro Oscar had come riding into town that afternoon at the same moment that Andrew Gilmore walked out of the Apachia police station. Therefore, detective José Hanna knew precisely what to expect.

  Chief of Police Armando Suarez rushed out of his office shortly after and drove in the direction of the syndicate leader's place. That gave José further confirmation that there was going to be a change in the game. Something unsavory had befallen Pietro out there in the Inca temple.

  "Time to play," he said and quickly rode a taxi to a quiet part of town called the Rurals. It was at the foot of the Ucatl Hill; the Urubamba River wound past nearby. Lush grass and waving trees surrounded the small estate in front of which the taxi dropped him off.

  The Victorian-style house rose out of the wild ferns and colorful peacocks. Detective José Hanna strode through the high grass to the short steps of the white-painted house; flower pots grew wild gladiolas and thorny roses on the porch.

  The chief judge of the high court of Apachia lived here.

  José knocked twice before a black maid came to the door. She had kinky hair and spoke clear Spanish with a faint creole accent. She was young and plain with red lips, very white sclera, and brown pupils. José rarely had to see judge Basilio, and every time he came here, it felt like walking into a 1940s movie.

  The judge was waiting in his study.

  He wore white bed robes and flip-flops. His glasses were placed in the middle of an open newspaper. He folded his hands on his potbelly, crossed his legs in front of him, and asked if José liked his Cognac.

  José said it was good brandy.

  "I've watched where all of these sweepings about gold are going; I have decided not to take sides."

  "And that is good, sir."

  José twirled his glass and gave the liquid a look of admiration again. It tasted like cold fire in his gut.

  "Why are you here?"

  "I need help, Judge."

  "I just told you I don't want a part of what's going on, didn't I?"

  "You did. It is not your help I need, Judge. It is the help of the law. Our laws."

  "You always struck me as a smart kid, José."

  The judge picked up the black bottle of Cognac and pou
red himself a drink. He sipped and smacked his lips together. Judge Basilio used to be a very handsome man but was still good-looking. Bushy brows came together. He looked at José.

  "But you are dumb to be working in Peru's worst police station. Tell me exactly how the law may help you now."

  Jose explained his predicament. Old Rodriguez knows more about the Inca temple that anyone else in the whole Apachia. Indeed, he was descended from a lineage of Gerentes. Pietro would find out, and there's no telling what he'd do.

  "How's that a problem for you?"

  "What?"

  "Yes. Everyone wants something. What do you get from stopping Pietro from getting his hands on the gold?"

  Jose was not prepared for the question; he hadn't given it prior thought. And he didn't have to. He looked the judge straight in the eye.

  "We can't continue to feed the corrupt system, Judge Basilio. If Pietro gets his hands on the gold, he'll buy more weapons, recruit homeless boys, and arm them. The streets will no longer be safe. More cops will be bought, more innocent people will be enslaved. Those who refuse will be killed. We won't be able to do shit about it, as usual."

  A sudden sadness had taken over the judge. He sat still for many seconds, his face clouded. He put his glass of brandy on the table and picked up the newspaper, with a morose air about him now. He opened the paper, lost interest, and put it away again.

  He nodded. "I understand perfectly, José. You want to protect the old man?"

  "I need an injunction to keep him in his cell, at least until I'm sure Pietro has lost interest in him."

  "You underestimate Pietro. You underestimate your cops. They'll smuggle him right under your nose. Or worse, they'll have you killed."

  "I understand the risks. I'm willing to do what I can. And there's another thing."

  The judge nodded.

  "There's a woman. Her name is Tami Capaldi. She is vital in this case. She worked for Rodriguez before she was arrested by the department. They said she stole—"

  "And you can do nothing about her?"

  "My case is finding the American. These people are going to help me in my case. I want an injunction for her as well. I need to keep them from Pietro."

  "But I don't see how this woman has anything to do with anything."

  "Tami Capaldi lived in Miami. She was friends with the Americans that are now in the Inca Temple. When push comes around to shoving, Pietro is going to want a pawn. Tami Capaldi will make a very strategic one."

  The judge rubbed his bare jaw. He grimaced; a little smile was on his lips. The black maid came into the study to announce that lunch was ready. José checked his watch. He was running out of time.

  Judge Basilio's mood suddenly became gay, almost childish. He rubbed his palms together.

  "Alice makes the most delicious Lomo Saltado. You have to try it." He beamed.

  "I'm afraid I can't, Judge."

  The judge urged him towards the table that had been set. The aroma filled José's nose. Alice, the black maid, smiled at the detective, and for a moment, the girl achieved a measure of prettiness.

  José wrested his eyes from her fetching breasts.

  "Your honor, I need the injunctions now. Sir."

  Basilio froze. He glanced at the spread of lunch. He shrugged. And ten minutes later, José left the psychedelic surrounding of Judge Basilio and was racing down the hill.

  —

  "I need all the names of the people in this town. Those whose families had anything to do with the Inca temple in the past. Someone with a—how do you say it—a Gerente in their family tree somewhere," said Kowalski.

  Pietro's anger flared in his eyes. He knew his options had been significantly narrowed the moment he involved himself with Seth Kowalski. So, he rubbed his temples gently. The throbbing there toned down.

  "I need more men, more guns," he lamented.

  "No, you don't need more men. You need someone who knows where to look and how to look."

  Pietro said there were no such men in Apachia. But some hands will hold guns for a hundred sols aplenty.

  "Focus!" Seth Kowalski barked. "Get the antique seller. He seems old enough. He'll know something."

  Pietro frowned, catching on to Kowalski's drift. Yes, of course, his head screamed at him. How haven't I thought of that? He gave the word immediately. Then he called police chief Alvarez.

  "Give Rodriguez to me."

  "What? Pietro, you can't just ask for things like that—"

  "That's what I pay you so much for, Alvarez. Give him to me. Bring him here."

  "Well, there's been some new developments—"

  Kowalski's sneaky ears caught the conversation, and he grabbed the phone from Pietro's ear.

  "What development?"

  "Who's this? Pietro?"

  Kowalski announced himself. The chief told him neither Rodriguez nor the woman Tami Capaldi can move from their cells at this time. High Court Judge Basilio issued an injunction that makes sure they face trial in three days. No bails, no movements.

  "The fuck! He can't do that!"

  "He can. He's the judge."

  "Does this asshole have jurisdiction?"

  "Yes."

  After a minute of confused quiet and much-disturbed thinking, Kowalski had Pietro call the chief a second time.

  "What now?" the cop asked tiredly.

  "Who got the injunction signed?"

  "One of ours. Detective José Hanna."

  Kowalski threw the phone in Pietro's open thighs. The bloodstains on his khakis had turned pink. Some had clotted in his boots too. There was a red cloth nestling just under Pietro's lower lip. If he licked his lip any time soon from excitement, he'd have that clot speeding its merry way down his throat. Who knows what diseases are sheltered in that tiny sample?

  Kowalski ignored the temptation to tell the man about the stain. And when he looked in Pietro's eyes, he saw hatred, one born of defeat and frustration.

  Kowalski walked away.

  In his hotel, he called a number on the phone.

  "I can't get my hands on Rodriguez. He’s under protection from the court. It one of theirs, a Detective José Hanna. You heard of him?"

  "Yes."

  "What do we do?"

  "This is Kuwait all over again—"

  "This is Peru. Some innocent people are gonna die."

  "For the greater good of America. Those boys down there are simply savages. They get their hands on that gold, they'd turn their streets into a warzone. We don't want that."

  "Yeah, I understand."

  "At least, that's what we tell ourselves so we can sleep a little bit at night."

  Kowalski shut his eyes, and the blackened bodies of burnt children flashed. It was surreal. He heard the screams, smelled the acrid smell of charred flesh. No death is minimal enough to be forgotten. And the humanity inside us is never able to justify the killings ultimately.

  "Do what you have to do. We must have that temple by tomorrow night. Do you understand? There's too much money at stake."

  When he finished talking on the phone, he rode a taxi down to the police station. Still, Rodriguez and Tami Capaldi had both vanished from their cells.

  —

  Detective José Hanna was basking in the satisfaction of his small victory with the injunctions in his apartment that late afternoon when he heard a knock on the door.

  With his gun behind him, he checked the peephole and saw a strange man—an American, by the looks of him. He had an oblong face, soft around the edges, and eyes like someone who didn't get to see sunlight very often.

  He wore a brown leather jacket, too big for his size. José didn't see the rest of him. His hands were folded in front of him, like a priest.

  José relaxed.

  "What do you want?" he asked when he opened the door.

  The man looked at him with those soft eyes, but there was something else. José didn't know exactly what, but the man sure was tougher than he looked.

  "I want to help you se
cure the gold."

  José leaned out. "What?"

  "I want to help you get the gold in the Inca temple."

  His voice was smooth, calm. The voice of someone sure of himself, who spoke only when he meant it.

  "How did you know about that? And who are you?"

  "My name is Andrew Gilmore. Pretty much everyone knows about the gold up there. Most of them, bad people."

  "I don't want it."

  "You don't? Well, that's unfortunate. I supposed you got the injunctions because you cared what happens to the treasure in that temple, and Coleman."

  Andrew Gilmore's hand went in his pockets. He was so poised he could be running on batteries and not oxygen, for he didn't seem to breathe. José admired him.

  "Do you want to come in, have coffee?"

  "Certainly."

  José Hanna served hot coffee in a small cup, one for him and another for Andrew. His visitor waited for him to sit before he folded himself on the sofa by the window.

  "What do you propose?"

  Andrew finished his cup in one swig. He placed the cup back in the ring of moisture where José settled before.

  "Whether you want it or not, someone's gonna get the gold out of the temple. You just gotta choose who does by helping out. If you want Pietro to get it, let him have Rodriguez, and if you want the woman, Olivia Newton to get, you know…"

  José stared straight into Andrew's eyes.

  "No, I don't want Pietro to get it. But I don't want the woman to either."

  "I'm afraid you don't yet understand the situation. As we speak, there's a CIA operative here in Apachia. He's someone you don't want to mess with. He goes where the CIA won't send others. He gets the job done. He'll kill you if he has to, he'll kill the judge too. It is sufficient to say to you that he's on his way here to kill you already."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "I know what I have to. Someone I used to trust tried to have me killed four days ago. The man was paid by this CIA agent, Seth Kowalski. He tried to kill the American woman and her team too. He'll keep trying until he gets the gold, and levels the temple. Do you want that?"

  "How do we stop him?"

  "We don't."

  "What do you mean? If he's as ruthless as you say, why don't you go on and kill him?"