Inca Gold by Clive Cussler
"Whatta guy," said Gunn, trying desperately to keep a straight face.
It was a charade. Pitt and Giordino were like sons to Sandecker. Nothing went on between them that wasn't marked with a high degree of respect. The admiral knew with dead certainty that as soon as they were sound and able, they'd be in his office pressuring him for an ocean project to direct.
Two dockhands lifted Giordino into the helicopter. One seat had to be removed to accommodate his outstretched legs.
Pitt leaned in the doorway and tweaked one of the toes that protruded from the cast. "Try not to lose this helicopter like all the others."
"No big deal," Giordino came back. "I get one of these things every time I buy ten gallons of gas."
Gunn placed his hand on Pitt's shoulder. "It's been fun," he said lightly. "We must do it again sometime."
Pitt made a horrified face. "Not on your life."
Sandecker gave Pitt a light hug. "You rest up and take it easy," he said softly so the others couldn't hear above the beat of the rotor blades. "I'll see you when I see you."
"I'll make it soon."
Loren and Pitt stood on the deck of the ferryboat and waved until the helicopter turned northeast over the waters of the Gulf. He turned to her. "Well, that just leaves us."
She smiled teasingly. "I'm starved. Why don't we head into Mexicali and find us a good Mexican restaurant?"
"Now that you've broached the subject, I have a sudden craving for huevos rancheros."
"I guess I'll have to do the driving."
Pitt lifted his hand. "I still have one good arm."
Loren wouldn't heir of it. Pitt stood on the dock and guided her as she competently drove the big Pierce Arrow and its trailer up the ramp from the auto deck of the ferryboat onto the dock.
Pitt took one last, longing look at the walking beams of the old paddle steamer and wished he could have sailed it through the Panama Canal and up the Potomac River to Washington. But it was not meant to be. He gave a forlorn sigh and was slipping into the passenger seat when a car pulled up alongside.
Curtis Starger climbed out.
He hailed them. "Glad I caught you before you left. Dave Gaskill said to make sure you got this."
He handed Pitt something wrapped in an Indian blanket. Unable to take it with both hands, he looked helplessly at Loren. She took the blanket and spread it open.
Four faces painted on clublike prayer sticks stared hack at them. "The sacred idols of the Montolos,"
Pitt said quietly. "Where did you find them?"
"We recovered them inside Joseph Zolar's private plane in Guaymas."
"I'd guessed the idols were in his dirty hands."
"They were positively identified as the missing Montolo effigies from a collectors data sheet we found with them," explained Starger.
"This will make the Montolos very happy."
Starger looked at him with a crooked smile. "I think we can trust you to deliver them."
Pitt chuckled and tilted his head toward the Travelodge. "They're not nearly as valuable as all the gold inside the trailer."
Starger threw Pitt a you-can't-fool-me look. "Very funny. All the golden artifacts are accounted for."
"I promise to drop the idols of in the Montolo village on our way to the border."
"Dave Gaskill and I never nourished a doubt."
"How are the Zolars?" Pitt asked.
"In jail with every charge from theft and illegal smuggling to murder hanging over their heads. You'll be happy to learn the judge denied them bail, dead certain they would flee the country.
"You people do nice work."
"Thanks to your help, Mr. Pitt. If the Customs Service can ever do you a favor, short of smuggling illegal goods into the country, of course, don't hesitate to give us a call."
"I'll remember that, thank you."
Billy Yuma was unsaddling his horse after making the daily rounds of his small herd. He paused to look over the rugged landscape of cactus, mesquite, and tamarisk scattered through the rock outcroppings making up his part of the Sonoran Desert. He saw a dust cloud approaching that slowly materialized into what looked to him to be a very old automobile pulling a trailer, both vehicles painted in the same shade of dark, almost black, blue.
His curiosity rose even higher when the car and trailer stopped in front of his house. He walked from the corral as the passenger door opened and Pitt stepped out.
"A warm sun to you, my friend," Yuma greeted him.
"And clear skies to you," Pitt replied.
Yuma shook Pitt's right hand vigorously. "I'm real glad to see you. They told me you died in the darkness."
"Almost, but not quite," said Pitt, nodding at the arm held by the sling. "I wanted to thank you for entering the mountain and saving the lives of my friends."
"Evil men are meant to die," said Yuma philosophically. "I'm happy I came in time."
Pitt handed Yuma the blanket-wrapped idols. "I've brought something for you and your tribe."
Yuma pulled back the top half of the blanket tenderly, as if peeking at a baby. He stared mutely for several moments into the faces of the four deities. Then tears brimmed in his eyes. "You have returned the soul of my people, our dreams, our religion. Now our children can be initiated and become men and women."
"I was told those who stole them experienced strange sounds like children wailing."
"They were crying to come home."
"I thought Indians never cried."
Yuma smiled as the joyous impact of what he held in his hands washed over him. "Don't you believe it.
We just don't like to let anyone see us."
Pitt introduced Loren to Billy's wife, Polly, who insisted they stay for dinner, and would not take no for an answer. Loren let it slip that Pitt had a taste for huevos rancheros, so Polly made him enough to feed five ranch hands.
During the meal, Yuma's friends and family came to the house and reverently looked upon the cottonwood idols. The men shook Pitt's hand while the women presented small handcrafted gifts to Loren. It was a very moving scene and Loren wept unashamedly.
Pitt and Yuma saw in each other two men who were basically very much alike. Neither had any illusions left. Pitt smiled at him. "It is an honor to have you as a friend, Billy."
"You are always welcome here."
"When the water is brought to the surface," said Pitt, "I will see that your village is at the top of the list to receive it.
Yuma removed an amulet on a leather thong from around his neck and gave it to Pitt. "Something to remember your friend by."
Pitt studied the amulet. It was a copper image of the Demonio del Muertos of Cerro el Capirote inlaid with turquoise. "It is too valuable. I cannot take it."
Yuma shook his head. "I swore to wear it until our sacred idols came home. Now it is yours for good luck."
"Thank you."
Before they left Canyon Ometepec, Pitt walked Loren up to Patty Lou Cutting's grave. She knelt and read the inscription on the tombstone.
"What beautiful words," she said softly. "Is there a story behind them?"
"No one seems to know. The Indians say she was buried by unknown people during the night."
"She was so young. Only ten years old."
Pitt nodded. "She rests in a lonely place for a ten-year-old.
"When we get back to Washington, let's try to find if she exists in any records."
The desert wildflowers had bloomed and died so Loren made a wreath from creosote bush branches and laid it over the grave. They stood there for a while looking over the desert. The colors fired by the setting sun were vivid and extraordinary, enhanced by the clear November air.
The whole village lined the road to wish them adios as Loren steered the Pierce Arrow toward the main highway. As she shifted through the gears, Loren looked over at Pitt wistfully.
"Strange as you might think it sounds, that little village would be an idyllic place to spend a quiet honeymoon."
"Are YOU reminding me
"I'm willing to write it off as a moment of madness on your part."
He looked at her. "You're turning me down?"
"Don't act crushed. One of us has to keep a level head. You're too scrupulous to back out."
"I was serious."
She turned her eyes from the road and gave him a warm smile. "I know you were, but let's face reality.
Our problem is that we're great pals, but we don't need each other. If you and I lived in a little house with a picket fence, the furniture would only gather dust because neither of us would ever be home. Oil and water don't mix. Your life is the sea, mine is Congress. We could never have a close, loving relationship.
Don't you agree?"
"I can't deny you make a strong case."
"I vote we continue just the way we have. Any objections?"
Pitt did not immediately answer. He hid his relief remarkably well, Loren thought. He stared through the windshield at the road ahead for a long time. Finally, he said, "You know what, Congresswoman Smith?"
"No, what?"
"For a politician, you're an incredibly honest and sexy woman."
"And for a marine engineer," she said huskily, "you're so easy to love."
Pitt smiled slyly and his green eyes twinkled. "How far to Washington?"
About five thousand kilometers. Why?"
He pulled the sling off his arm, threw it in the backseat and slid his arm around her shoulder. "Just think, we've got five thousand kilometers to find out just how lovable I am."
POSTSCRIPT
The walls in the waiting room outside Sandecker's private office in the NUMA headquarters building are covered with a rogues' gallery of photographs taken of the admiral hobnobbing with the rich and famous. The subjects include five Presidents, numerous military leaders and heads of state, congressmen, noted scientists, and a sprinkling of motion picture stars, all staring at the camera, lips stretched in predictable smiles.
All have simple black frames. All except one that hangs in the exact center of the others. This one has a gold frame.
In this photograph Sandecker is standing amid a strange group of people who look as if they have just been in some kind of spectacular accident. One short, curly-headed man sits in a wheelchair, his legs in plaster casts, jutting toward the cameraman. Beside him is a small man wearing hornrimmed glasses, with his head encased in a bandage and splints on several of his fingers, wearing what appears to be a flimsy untied hospital smock. Then there is an attractive woman in shorts and a haltertop who looks as if she belongs in a safe house for battered wives. Next to her stands a tall man with a bandage on his forehead and one arm in a sling. His eyes have a devil-may-care look and his head is tilted back in robust laughter.
If, after being ushered into the admiral's office, you casually ask about the unusual characters in the photograph with the gold frame, be prepared to sit and listen attentively for the next hour.
It is a long story, and Sandecker loves to tell how the Rio Pitt got its name.
Clive Cussler, Inca Gold