Inca Gold

by Clive Cussler

  "Leave him to me," Rodgers said angrily. "It's the least I can do for a good man."

  Amaru grinned hideously, actually grinned through his agony. "Fools, crazy fools," he sneered. "You'll never leave the Pueblo de los Muertos alive."

  "Pueblo de los Muertos means city of the dead," Shannon translated.

  The others glanced in disgust at Amaru. To them he seemed like an impotent rattlesnake too injured to coil and strike. But Pitt still saw him as dangerous and was not about to make the fatal mistake of underestimating him. He didn't care for the eerie expression of confidence in Amaru's eyes.

  As soon as the others hurried out of the room, Pitt knelt beside Amaru. "You act pretty sure of yourself for a man in your position."

  "The last laugh will be mine." Amaru's face contorted in a sudden spasm of pain. "You have blundered into the path of powerful men. Their wrath will be terrible."

  Pitt smiled indifferently. "I've blundered up against powerful men before."

  "By lifting a tiny piece of the curtain you have endangered the Solpemachaco. They will do whatever necessary to prevent exposure, even if it means the elimination of an entire province."

  "Not exactly a sweet-tempered group you're associated with. What do you call them again?"

  Amaru went silent. He was becoming weak from shock and the loss of blood. Slowly, with much difficulty, he lifted a hand and pointed a finger at Pitt. "You are cursed. Your bones will rest with the Chachapoyas forever." Then, his eyes went unfocused, closed, and he fainted.

  Pitt stared at Shannon. "Who are the Chachapoyas?"

  "Known as the Cloud People," Shannon explained. "They were a pre-Inca culture that flourished high in the Andes from A.D. 800 to 1480, when they were conquered by the Incas. It was the Chachapoyas who built this elaborate necropolis for the dead."

  Pitt rose to his feet, removed the guard's felt hat from his head and dropped it on Amaru's chest. He turned and walked into the main chamber of the temple and spent the next few minutes examining the incredible cache of Chachapoyan artifacts. He was admiring a large clay mummy case when Rodgers rushed up, looking disturbed.

  "Where did you say you left Doc Miller?" Rodgers asked, half out of breath.

  "On the landing above the exterior steps."

  "You'd better show me."

  Pitt followed Rodgers outside the arched entrance. He stopped and stared down at a bloodstain on the stone landing, then looked up questioningly. "Who moved the body?"

  "If you don't know," said an equally mystified Rodgers, "I certainly don't."

  "Did you look around the base of the temple? Maybe he fell--"

  "I sent four of the archaeology students down to search. They found no sign of the Doc."

  "Could any of the students have moved him?"

  "I checked. They're all as bewildered as we are."

  "Dead bodies do not get up and walk off," said Pitt flatly.

  Rodgers looked around the outside of the temple, then gave a shrug. "It looks as if this one did."

  The air conditioner whirred and circulated cool dry air inside the long motor home that served as the archaeology project's headquarters in Chachapoya. And the man reclining on a leather sofa was a great deal less fatigued than the men and women in the City of the Dead. Juan Chaco rested languidly while maintaining a firm grip on his well-iced gin and tonic. But he sat up in full wakefulness almost instantly when a voice came over the radio speaker mounted on a wall behind the driver's compartment.

  "Saint John calling Saint Peter." The voice came sharp and distinct. "Saint John calling Saint Peter. Are you there?"

  Chaco moved quickly across the interior of the plush motor home and pressed the transmit button on the radio. "I am here and listening."

  "Turn on the recorder. I don't have time to repeat myself or explain the situation in detail."

  Chaco acknowledged and switched on a cassette recorder. "Ready to receive."

  "Amaru and his followers were overpowered and taken prisoner. They are now being held under guard by the archaeologists. Amaru was shot and may be badly wounded."

  Chaco's face suddenly turned grim. "How is this possible?"

  "One of the men from NUMA, who responded to your distress call, somehow escaped from the sinkhole and pursued Amaru and his captives to the valley temple where he managed to subdue our overpaid cutthroats one by one."

  "What sort of devil could do all this?"

  "A very dangerous and resourceful devil."

  "Are you safe?"

  "For the moment."

  "Then our plan to frighten the archaeologists from our collection grounds has failed."

  "Miserably," replied the caller. "Once Dr. Kelsey saw the artifacts awaiting shipment, she guessed the setup."

  "What of Miller?"

  "They suspect nothing."

  "At least something went right," said Chaco.

  "If you send in a force before they leave the valley," explained the familiar voice, "we can still salvage the operation."

  "It was not our intention to harm our Peruvian students," said Chaco. "The repercussions from my countrymen would spell the end to any further business between us."

  "Too late, my friend. Now that they realize their ordeal was caused by a looting syndicate instead of Shining Path terrorists, they can't be allowed to reveal what they've seen. We have no choice but to eliminate them."

  "None of this would have occurred if you had prevented Dr. Kelsey and Miles Rodgers from diving in the sacred well."

  "Short of committing murder in front of the students, there was no stopping them."

  "Sending out the rescue call was a mistake."

  "Not if we wished to avoid serious inquiry by your government officials. Their drownings would have appeared suspicious if the correct rescue measures hadn't been taken. We cannot afford to expose the Solpemachaco to public scrutiny. Besides, how could we know that NUMA would respond from out of nowhere?"

  "True, an event that was inconceivable at the time."

  As Chaco spoke, his empty eyes gazed at a small stone statue of a winged jaguar that was dug up in the valley of the dead. Finally he said quietly, "I'll arrange for our hired mercenaries from the Peruvian army to drop in the Pueblo de los Muertos by helicopter within two hours."

  "Do you have confidence in the commanding officer to do the job?"

  Chaco smiled to himself. "If I can't trust my own brother, who can I trust?"

  "I never believed in resurrection of mere mortals." Pitt stood gazing down at the pool of crimson on the landing above the near-vertical stairway leading to the floor of the valley. "But this is as good an example as I've ever seen."

  "He was dead," Rodgers said emphatically. "I was standing as close to him as I am to you when Amaru put a bullet through his heart. Blood was everywhere. You saw him lying here. There can be no doubt in your mind Doc was a corpse."

  "I didn't take the time to do a postmortem examination."

  "Okay, but how do you explain the trail of blood from the interior chamber where Doc was shot?

  There must be a gallon of it spread from here to there."

  "Closer to a pint," said Pitt thoughtfully. "You exaggerate."

  "How long would you guess the body rested here from the time you knocked out the guard and then released the students who arrived and tied him up?" asked Rodgers.

  "Four, maybe five minutes at the outside."

  "And within that time a sixty-seven-year-old dead man bounds down two hundred tiny, narrow, niched steps laid on a seventy-five-degree angle. Steps that can't be taken more than one at a time without falling, and then he vanishes without shedding another drop of blood." Rodgers shook his head.

  "Houdini would have flushed with envy."

  "Are you sure it was Doc Miller?" Pitt asked pensively.

  "Of course it was Doc," Rodgers said incredulously. "Who else do you think it was?"

  "How long have you known him?"

  "By reputation, at least fifteen years. Personally
, I only met him five days ago." Rodgers stared at Pitt as if he were a madman. "Look, you're fishing in empty waters. Doc is one of the world's leading anthropologists. He is to ancient American culture what Leakey is to African prehistory. His face has graced a hundred articles in dozens of magazines from the Smithsonian to the National Geographic. He has narrated and appeared in any number of public service television documentaries on early man. Doc was no recluse, he loved publicity. He was easily recognizable."

  "Just fishing," Pitt said in a patient explaining tone. "Nothing like a wild plot to stir the mind-'

  He broke off as Shannon and Giordino sprinted into view around the circular base of the temple. Even at this height above the ground he could see they appeared agitated. He waited until Giordino was halfway up the stairs before he shouted.

  "Don't tell me, somebody beat you to the radio and smashed it."

  Giordino paused, leaning against the sheer stairway. "Wrong," he shouted back. "It was gone.

  Snatched by person or persons unknown."

  By the time Shannon and Giordino reached the top of the stairs they were both panting from the exertion and glistening with sweat. Shannon daintily patted her face with a soft tissue all women seem to produce at the most crucial times. Giordino merely rubbed an already damp sleeve across his forehead.

  "Whoever built this thing," he said between breaths, "should have installed an elevator."

  "Did you find the tomb with the radio?" Pitt asked.

  Giordino nodded. "We found it all right. No cheapskates, these guys. The tomb was furnished right out of Abercrombie & Fitch. The best outdoor paraphernalia money can buy. There was even a portable generator providing power to a refrigerator."

  "Empty?" Pitt guessed.

  Giordino nodded. "The rat who made off with the radio took the time to smash nearly four sixpacks of perfectly good Coors beer."

  "Coors in Peru?" Rodgers asked dubiously.

  "I can show you the labels on the broken bottles," moaned Giordino. "Someone wanted us to go thirsty."

  "No fear of that with a jungle just beyond the pass," Pitt said with a slight smile.

  Giordino stared at Pitt, but there was no return smile. "So how do we call in the marines?"

  Pitt shrugged. "With the tomb robbers' radio missing, and the one in our helicopter looking like a lump of Swiss cheese-" he broke off and turned to Rodgers. "What about your communications at the sinkhole site?"

  The photographer shook his head. "One of Amaru's men shot our radio to junk the same as yours."

  "Don't tell me," Shannon said resignedly, "we have to trudge thirty kilometers back through the forest primeval to the project site at the sinkhole, and then another ninety kilometers to Chachapoya?"

  "Maybe Chaco will become worried when he realizes all contact is lost with the project and send in a search party to investigate," Rodgers said hopefully.

  "Even if they traced us to the City of the Dead," Pitt said slowly, "they'd arrive too late. All they'd find would be dead bodies scattered around the ruins."

  Everyone glanced at him in puzzled curiosity.

  "Amaru claimed we have upset the applecart of powerful men," Pitt continued by way of explanation,

  "and that they would never allow us to leave this valley alive for fear that we would expose their artifact theft operation."

  "But if they intended to kill us," Shannon said uncertainly, "why bring us here? They could have just as well shot everyone and thrown our remains into the sinkhole."

  "In order for them to make it look like a Shining Path raid, they may have had it in their mind to play the hostage for ransom game. If the Peruvian government, your university officials in the States, or the families of the archaeological students had paid enormous sums for your release, all the better. They'd have simply considered the ransom money as a bonus to the profits of their illegal smuggling and murdered all of you anyway."

  "Who are these people?" Shannon asked sharply.

  "Amaru referred to them as the Solpemachaco, whatever that translates into."

  "Solpemachaco," Shannon echoed. "A combination Medusa/dragon myth from the local ancients.

  Folklore passed down through the centuries describes Solpemachaco as an evil serpent with seven heads who lives in a cave. One myth claims he lives here in the Pueblo de los Muertos."

  Giordino yawned indifferently. "Sounds like a bad screenplay starring another monster from the bowels of the earth."

  "More likely a clever play on words," said Pitt. "A metaphor as a code name for an international looting organization with a vast reach into the underground antiquities market."

  "The serpent's seven heads could represent the masterminds behind the organization," suggested Shannon.

  "Or seven different bases of operation," added Rodgers.

  "Now that we've cleared up that mystery," Giordino said wryly, "why don't we clear the hell out of here and head for the sinkhole before the Sioux and Cheyenne come charging through the pass?"

  "Because they'd be waiting when we got there," said Pitt. "Methinks we should stay put."

  "You really believe they'll send men to kill us?" Shannon said, her expression more angry than fearful.

  Pitt nodded. "I'd bet my pension on it. Whoever made off with the radio most certainly tattled on us. I judge his pals will soar into the valley like maddened hornets in. . ." he paused to glance at his watch before continuing, ". . . about an hour and a half. After that, they'll shoot down anyone who vaguely resembles an archaeologist."

  "Not what I call a cheery thought," she murmured.

  "With six automatic rifles and Dirk's handgun I reckon we might discourage a first-rate gang of two dozen cutthroats for all of ten minutes," muttered Giordino gloomily.

  "We can't stay here and fight armed criminals," Rodgers protested. "We'd all be slaughtered."

  "And there are the lives of those kids to consider," said Shannon, suddenly looking a little pale.

  "Before we're swept up in an orgy of pessimism," said Pitt briskly, as if he hadn't a care in the world, "I suggest we round up everyone and evacuate the temple."

  "Then what?" demanded Rodgers.

  "First, we look around for Amaru's landing site."

  "For what purpose?"

  Giordino rolled his eyes. "I know that look. He's hatching another Machiavellian scheme."

  "Nothing too contrived," Pitt said patiently. "I figure that after the bushwhackers land and begin chasing around the ruins searching for us, we'll borrow their helicopter and fly off to the nearest four-star hotel and a refreshing bath."

  There was a moment of incredulous stillness. They all stared at Pitt as if he'd just stepped out of a Martian space capsule. Giordino was the first to break the stunned silence.

  "See," he said with a wide grin. "I told you so."

  Pitt's estimate of an hour and a half was shy by only ten minutes. The stillness of the valley was broken by the throb of rotor blades whipping the air as two Peruvian military helicopters flew over the crest of a saddle between mountain peaks and circled the ancient buildings. After a cursory reconnaissance of the area, they descended in a clearing amid the ruins less than 100 meters (328 feet) from the front of the conical temple structure. The troops spilled out rapidly through the rear clamshell doors under the beating rotor blades and lined up at rigid attention as though they were standing for inspection.

  These were no ordinary soldiers dedicated to preserving the peace of their nation. They were mercenary misfits who hired themselves out to the highest bidder. At the direction of the officer in charge, a captain incongruously attired in full dress uniform, the two platoons of thirty men each were formed into one closely packed battle line led by two lieutenants. Satisfied the line was straight, the captain raised a swagger stick above his head and motioned for the officers under his command to launch the assault on the temple. Then he climbed a low wall to direct the one-sided battle from what he thought was a safe viewpoint.

  The captain shouted en
couragement to his men, urging them to bravely charge up the steps of the temple. His voice echoed because of the hard acoustics of the ruins. But he broke off and uttered a strange awking sound that became a fit of gagging pain. For a brief instant he stiffened, his face twisted in incomprehension, then he folded forward and pitched off the wall, landing with a loud crack on the back of his head.

  A short, dumpy lieutenant in baggy combat fatigues rushed over and knelt beside the fallen captain, looked up at the funeral palace in dazed understanding, opened his mouth to shout an order, then crumpled over the body beneath him, the sharp crack of a Type 56-1 rifle the last thing he heard before death swept over him.

  From the landing on the upper level of the temple, flat on his stomach behind a small barricade of stones, Pitt stared down at the line of confused troops through the sights of the rifle and fired another four rounds into their ranks, picking off the only remaining officer. There was no look of surprise or fear on Pitt's face at seeing the overwhelming mercenary force, only a set look of determination in the deep green eyes. By resisting he was providing a diversion to save the lives of thirteen innocent people. Merely firing over the troops' heads to momentarily slow the assault was a futile waste of time. These men had come to kill all witnesses to a criminal operation. Kill or be killed was a cliché, but it held true. These men would give no quarter.

  Pitt was not a pitiless man, his eyes were neither steel hard nor ice cold. For him there was no enjoyment in killing a complete stranger. His biggest regret was that the faceless men responsible for the crimes were not in his sights.

  Cautiously, he pulled the assault rifle back from the tight peephole between the stones and surveyed the ground below. The Peruvian mercenaries had fanned out behind the stone ruins. A few scattered shots were fired upward at the temple, chipping the stone carvings before ricocheting and whining off into the cliff of tombs behind. These were hardened, disciplined fighting men who recovered quickly under pressure. Killing their officers had stalled but not stopped them. The sergeants had taken command and were concentrating on a tactic to eliminate this unexpected resistance.