Inca Gold by Clive Cussler
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.
"Spectacular," whispered Zolar. "I can't believe I'm looking at so much gold."
"This easily exceeds the treasures of King Tut's tomb," said Moore.
"How magnificent," said Micki, clutching her husband's arm. "This has to be the richest cache in all the Americas."
Sarason's amazement quickly wore off. "Very clever of those ancient bastards," he charged. "Storing the treasure on an island surrounded by a strong current makes recovery doubly complicated."
"Yes, but we've got cables and winches," said Moore.
INCA GOLD
"Think of the difficulty they had in moving all that gold over there with nothing but hemp rope and muscle."
Micki spied a golden monkey crouched on a pedestal. "That's odd."
Zolar looked at her. "What's odd?"
She stepped closer to the monkey and its pedestal which was lying on its side. "Why would this piece still be on this bank of the river?"
"Yes, it does seem strange this object wasn't placed with the others," said Moore. "It almost looks as if it was thrown here."
Sarason pointed to gouges in the sand and calcium crystals beside the riverbank. "I'd say it was dragged off the island."
"It has writing scratched on it," said Moore.
"Can you decipher anything?" asked Zolar.
"Doesn't need deciphering. The markings are in English."
Sarason and Zolar stared at him with the expressions of Wall Street bankers walking along the sidewalk and being asked by a homeless derelict if they could spare fifty thousand dollars. "No jokes, Professor," said Zolar.
"I'm dead serious. Somebody engraved a message into the soft gold on the bottom of the pedestal, quite recently by the looks of it."
"What does it say?"
Moore motioned for an engineer to aim his lamp at the monkey's pedestal, adjusted his glasses and began reading aloud.
Welcome members of the Solpemachaco to the underground thieves and plunderers annual convention.
If you have any ambitions in life other than the acquisition of stolen loot, you have come to the right place.
Be our guests and take only the objects you can use.
Your congenial sponsors,
Dr. Shannon Kelsey, Miles Rodgers, Al Giordino, & Dirk Pitt.
There was a moment of sober realization, and then Zolar snarled at his brother. "What in hell is going on here? What kind of foolish trick is this?"
Sarason's mouth was pinched in a bitter line. "Pitt admitted leading us to the demon," he answered reluctantly, "but he said nothing of entering the mountain and laying eyes on the treasure."
Sarason shrugged. "He's dead. I didn't think it mattered."
Micki turned to her husband. "I know Dr. Kelsey. I met her at an archaeology conference in San Antonio. She has a splendid reputation as an expert on Andean cultures."
Moore nodded. "Yes, I'm familiar with her work." He stared at Sarason. "You led us to believe Congresswoman Smith and the men from NUMA were merely on a treasure hunt. You said nothing of involvement by professional archaeologists."
"Does it make any difference?"
"Something is going on beyond your control," warned Moore. He looked as if he was enjoying the Zolars' confusion. "If I were you, I'd get the gold out of here as fast as possible."
His words were punctuated by a muffled explosion far up into the passageway.
"We have nothing to fear so long as Pitt is dead," Sarason kept insisting. "What you see here was done before Amaru put a stop to him." But he was damp with cold sweat. Pitt's mocking words rang in his ears, "You've been set up, pal."
Zolar's features slowly altered. The mouth tightened and the set of the jaw seemed to recede, the eyes became apprehensive. "Nobody discovers a treasure on the magnitude of this one, leaves behind a ridiculous message, and then walks away from it. These people have a method to their madness, and I for one would like to know their plan."
"Any man who stands in our way before the treasure is safely off the mountain will be destroyed,"
Sarason shouted at his brother. "That is a promise."
The words came forcefully, with the ring of a bullet resistant threat. They all believed him. Except Micki Moore.
She was the only one standing close enough to see his lips quiver.
Bureaucrats from around the world looked the same, Pitt thought. The fabricated meaningless smile betrayed by the patronizing look in the eyes. They must have all gone to the same school and memorized the same canned speech of evasive phrases. This one was bald, wore thick hornrimmed glasses, and had a black moustache with each bristle exactingly trimmed.
A tall, complacent man, whose profile and haughtiness reminded the Americans seated around the conference room of a Spanish conquistador, Fernando Matos was the very essence of a condescending, fence-and-dodge bureaucrat. He stared at the Americans in the Customs building less than 100 meters (328 feet) from the international border.
Admiral James Sandecker, who had arrived from Washington shortly after Gaskill and Ragsdale flew in from Galveston, stared back and said nothing. Shannon, Rodgers, and Giordino were relegated to chairs against one wall while Pitt sat at Sandecker's right. They left the talking to the chief Customs agent of the region, Curtis Starger.
A veteran of sixteen years with the service, Starger had been around the Horn enough times to have seen it all. He was a trim, handsome man with sharp features and blond hair. He looked more like an aging lifeguard on a San Diego beach than a hardened agent who gazed at Matos with an expression that could scorch asbestos. After the introductions were made, he launched his attack.
"I'll skip the niceties, Mr. Matos. On matters such as this I'm used to dealing with your elite law enforcement agents, especially Inspector Granados and the chief of your Northern Mexico Investigative Division, Sefior Rojas. I wish you would explain, sir, why a midlevel official from an obscure office of the National Affairs Department was sent to brief us on the situation. I get the feeling that your national government in Mexico City is as much in the dark as we are."
Matos made a helpless gesture with his hands. His eyes never blinked, and his smile remained fixed. If he felt insulted, it didn't show. "Inspector Granados is working on a case in Hermosillo and Sefior Rojas was taken ill."
"Sorry to hear it," Starger grunted insincerely.
"If they were not indisposed or on duties elsewhere, I'm certain they would have been happy to consult with you. I share your frustration. But I assure you, my government will do everything in its power to cooperate on this matter."
"The United States Attorney's Office has reason to believe that three men going under the names of Joseph Zolar, Charles Oxley, and Cyrus Sarason, all brothers, are conducting a massive international operation dealing in stolen art, smuggled artifacts, and art forgery. We also have reason to believe they have abducted one of our respected congressional legislators and an official of our most prestigious marine science agency."
Matos smiled blandly behind his bureaucratic defenses. "Utterly ridiculous. As you very well know, gentlemen, after your fruitless raid on the Zolars' facilities in Texas, their reputation remains untarnished."
Gaskill smiled wryly at Ragsdale. "News travels fast."
"These men you seem intent on persecuting have violated no laws in Mexico. We have no legal cause to investigate them."
"What are you doing about securing the release of Congresswoman Smith and Deputy Director Gunn?"
"Our finest investigative police teams are working on the case," Matos assured him. "My superiors have already made arrangements to pay the ransom demands. And I can guarantee it is only a question of a few hours before the bandits responsible for this travesty are captured and your people rescued unharmed."
"Our sources claim the Zolars are the criminals who are responsible."
Matos shook his head. "No, no, the evidence proves a gang of thieving bandits is behind the abduction."
Pitt joined in the fray. "Speaking of abductions, what about the crew of the ferryboat? Where did they disappear to?"
Matos gazed at Pitt contemptuously. "That is of no importance here. As a matter of record, our police officials have four signed statements naming you as the instigator of this plot."
Resentment surged through Pitt. The Zolars had cunningly planned every contingency, but they had either ignored the fact the crew of the Alhambra were not dead or Amaru had botched the job and lied.
Padilla and his men must have made shore and been put under wraps by the local police.
"Were your investigators as thoughtful in providing me with a motive?" asked Pitt.
"Motives do not concern me, Mr. Pitt. I rely on evidence. But since you brought it up, the crew claims you killed Congresswoman Smith and Rudi Gunn to gain the location of the treasure."
"Your police officials have Alzheimer's disease if they swallow that," snapped Giordino.
"Evidence is evidence," Matos said smoothly. "As an official of the government I must operate within strict legal parameters."
Pitt took the ridiculous accusation in stride and sneaked in from the side. "Tell me, Sefior Matos, what percentage of the gold will you take as your share?"
"Five--" Matos caught himself too late.
"Were you about to say five percent, sir?" Starger asked softly.
Matos tilted his head and shrugged. "I was about to say nothing of the sort."
"I'd say your superiors have turned a blind eye to a deep conspiracy," said Sandecker.
"There is no conspiracy, Admiral. I'll take an oath on
"What you're broadcasting," said Gaskill, leaning across the table, "is that officials of the Sonoran State government have struck a deal with the Zolars to keep the Peruvian treasure."
Matos lifted a hand. "The Peruvians have no legal claim. All artifacts found on Mexican soil belong to our people--"
"They belong to the people of Peru," Shannon interrupted, her face flushed with anger. "If your government had any sense of decency, they would invite the Peruvians to at least share in it."
"Affairs between nations do not work that way, Dr. Kelsey," replied Matos.
"How would you like it if Montezuma's lost golden treasure turned up in the Andes?"
"I'm not in a position to judge outlandish events," Matos answered imperviously. "Besides, rumors of the treasure are greatly exaggerated. Its true value is really of little consequence."
Shannon looked flabbergasted. "What are you saying? I saw Huascar's treasure with my own eyes. If anything, it's far more substantial than
"The Zolars are respected dealers who have a worldwide reputation for accurately appraising art and antiquities. Their evaluation of the treasure does not exceed thirty million."
"Mister," Shannon snapped in cold fury, "I'll match my credentials against theirs any day of the week in appraising artifacts of ancient Peruvian cultures. I'll put it to you in plain language. The Zolars are full of crap."
"Your word against theirs," Matos said calmly.
"For a small treasure trove," said Ragsdale, "they appear to be mounting a massive recovery effort."
"Five or ten laborers to carry the gold out of the cavern. No more."
"Would you like to see reconnaissance satellite photos that show the top of Cerro el Capirote looking like an anthill with an army of men and helicopters crawling all over it?"
Matos sat silently, as if he hadn't heard a word.
"And the Zolars' payoff?" asked Starger. "Are you allowing them to remove artifacts from the country?"
"Their efforts on behalf of the people of Sonora will not go unappreciated. They will be compensated."
It was an obvious fish story and nobody in the room bought it.
Admiral Sandecker was the highest American official in the room. He stared at Matos and gave him a disarming smile. "I will be meeting with our nation's President tomorrow morning. At that time I will brief him on the alarming events occurring in our neighbor to the south, and inform him that your law enforcement officials are dragging their feet on the investigation and throwing up a smoke screen on the kidnapping of our highlevel representatives. I need not remind you, Senor Matos, the free trade agreement is coming up for review by Congress. When our representatives are informed of your callous treatment of one of their colleagues, and how you cooperate with criminals dealing in stolen and smuggled art, they may find it difficult to continue our mutual trade relations. In short, senor, your President wild have a major scandal on his hands."
Matos's eyes behind the glasses were suddenly stricken. "There is no need for so strong a response over a minor disagreement between our two countries."