Inca Gold

    Moore was becoming increasingly uneasy. The balance of power had shifted. His edge was dulled now he was certain that Sarason saw beyond his credentials as an insolent schoolteacher. If he had recognized the killer instinct in Sarason, it stood to reason Sarason had identified it in him too.

    But there was a small measure of satisfaction. Sarason was not clairvoyant. He could not have known, nor did any man alive know except the President of the United States, that Professor Henry Moore, respected anthropologist, and his equally respected archaeologist wife, Micki were experts in carrying out assassinations of foreign terrorist leaders. With their academic credentials they easily traveled in and out of foreign countries as consultants on archaeological projects. Interestingly, the CIA was in total ignorance of their actions. Their assignments came directly from an obscure agency calling itself the Foreign Activities Council that operated out of a small basement room under the White House.

    Moore shifted restlessly in his seat and studied a chart of the Gulf. Finally he said, "Something is very, very wrong."

    Oxley looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. I prefer to land in daylight. We might as well call it a day."

    Sarason's expressionless gaze rested on the empty horizon ahead. Untypically, he acted relaxed and quiet. He offered no comment.

    "It's got to be here, "Moore said, examining the islands he had crossed out on his chart as if he had flunked a test.

    "I have an unpleasant feeling we might have flown right by it," said Oxley.

    Now that he saw Moore in a different light, Sarason viewed him with the respect one adversary has for another. He also realized that despite his slim frame, the professor was strong and quick. Struggling up the rocky walls of promising islands, gasping from aggravated exhaustion and playing drunk, was nothing more than an act. On two occasions, Moore leaped over a fissure with the agility of a mountain goat. On another, with seemingly little effort, he cast aside a boulder blocking his path that easily equaled his weight.

    Sarason said, "Perhaps the Inca sculpture we're looking for was destroyed."

    In the rear seat of the seaplane Moore shook his head. "No, I'd have recognized the pieces."

    "Suppose it was moved? It wouldn't be the first time an ancient sculpture was relocated to a museum for display."

    "If Mexican archaeologists had taken a massive rock carving and set it up for exhibit," said Moore doggedly, "I'd have known about it."

    "Then how do you explain that it is not where it is supposed to be?"

    "I can't," Moore admitted. "As soon as we land back at the hacienda, I'll review my notes. There must be a seemingly insignificant clue that I missed in my translation of the golden suit."

    "I trust you will find it before tomorrow morning," Sarason said dryly.

    Oxley fought the urge to doze off. He had been at the controls since nine o'clock in the morning and his neck was stiff with weariness. He held the control column between his knees and poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos. He took a swallow and made a face. It was not only cold but tasted as strong as battery acid. Suddenly, his eye caught a flash of green from under a cloud. He pointed out the window to the right of the Baffin flying boat.

    "Don't see many helicopters in this part of the Gulf," he said casually.

    Sarason didn't bother to look. "Must be a Mexican navy patrol plane."

    "No doubt looking for a drunken fisherman with a broken engine," added Moore.

    Oxley shook his head. "I can't ever recall seeing a turquoise military aircraft."

    Sarason looked up, startled. "Turquoise? Can you make out its markings?"

    Oxley lifted the binoculars and peered through the windscreen. "American."

    "A Drug Enforcement Agency patrol working with Mexican authorities, probably."

    "No, it belongs to National Underwater and Marine Agency. I wonder what they're doing in the Gulf?"

    "They conduct ocean surveys all over the world," said Moore unconcernedly.

    Sarason stiffened as though he'd been shot. "Two scum from NUMA wrecked our operation in Peru."

    "Hardly seems likely there's a co

    "What operation did NUMA wreck in Peru?" asked Moore, sniffing the air.

    "They stepped outside their jurisdiction," answered Sarason vaguely.

    "I'd like to hear about it sometime."

    "Not a subject that concerns you," Sarason said, brushing him off. "How many people in the craft?"

    "Looks like a model that seats four," replied Oxley, "but I only see a pilot and one passenger."

    "Are they approaching or headed away?"

    "The pilot has turned onto a converging course that will cross about two hundred meters above us."

    "Can you ascend and turn with him?" asked Sarason. "I want a closer look."

    "Since aviation authorities can't take away a license I never applied for--" Oxley smiled-- "I'll put you in the pilot's lap."

    "Is that safe?" Moore asked.

    Oxley gri

    Sarason took the binoculars and peered at the turquoise helicopter. This was a different model from the one that had landed at the sacrificial well. That one had a shorter fuselage and landing skids. This one had retractable landing gear. But there was no mistaking the color scheme and markings. He told himself it was ridiculous to think the men in the approaching helicopter could possibly be the same ones who appeared out of nowhere in the Andes.

    He trained the binoculars on the helicopter's cockpit. In another few seconds he would be able to discern the faces inside. For some strange, inexplicable reason his calm began to crack and he felt his nerves tighten.

    "What do you think?" asked Giordino. "Could they be the ones?"

    "They could be." Pitt stared through a pair of naval glasses at the amphibian seaplane flying on a diagonal course below the helicopter. "After watching the pilot circle Estanque Island for fifteen minutes as if he were looking for something on the peak, I think it's safe to say we've met up with our competition."

    "According to Sandecker, they launched their search two days ahead of us," said Giordino. "Since they're still taking in the sights, they can't have experienced any success either."

    Pitt smiled. "Sort of gladdens the heart, doesn't it?"

    "If they can't find it, and we can't find it, then the Incas must have sold us a wagon load of hocus pocus."

    "I don't think so. Stop and consider. There are two different search efforts in the same area, but as far as we know both teams are using two unrelated sets of instructions. We have the Inca quipu while they're following the engravings on a golden mummy suit. At the worst, our separate sets of clues would have led us to different locations. No, the ancients haven't misled us. The treasure is out there. We simply haven't looked in the right place."

    Giordino always marveled that Pitt could sit for hours analyzing charts, studying instruments, mentally recording every ship on the sea below, the geology of the offshore islands, and every variance of the wind without the slightest sign of fatigue, his concentration always focused. He had to suffer the same muscle aches, joint stiffness, and nervous stress that plagued Giordino, but he gave no indication of discomfort. In truth, Pitt felt every ache and pain, but he could shut it all from his mind and keep going as strongly as when he started in the morning.