Clive Cussler - Inca Gold

"I wonder what happened to the Moores," mused Oxley, peering through a window at the Sea of Cortez as it receded in the distance. "The last I saw of them was in the cavern as the last of the treasure was being loaded on a sled."

"I'll wager Cyrus handled that little problem in concert with Congresswoman Smith and Rudi Gunn," said Zolar, relaxing for the first time in days. He looked up and smiled at his personal serving lady as she offered two glasses of wine on a tray.

"I know it sounds strange, but I had an uneasy feeling they wouldn't be easy to get rid of."

"I have to tell you. The same thing crossed Cyrus's mind too. In fact, he thought they were a pair of killers."

Oxley turned to him. "The wife too? You're joking."

"No, I do believe he was serious." Zolar took a sip of the wine and made an expression of approval and nodded. "Excellent. A California cabernet from Chateau Montelena. You must try it."

Oxley took the glass and stared at it. "I won't feel like celebrating until the treasure is safely stored in Morocco and we learn that Cyrus has left Mexico."

Shortly after the aircraft had reached what the brothers believed was cruising altitude, they released their seat belts and stepped into the cargo bay where they began closely examining the incredible golden collection of antiquities. Hardly an hour had passed when Zolar stiffened and looked at his brother queerly.

"Does it feel to you like we're descending?"

Oxley was admiring a golden butterfly that was attached to a golden flower. "I don't feel anything."

Zolar was not satisfied. He leaned down and stared through a window at the ground less than 1000 meters (less than 3300 feet) below.

"We're too low!" he said sharply. "Something is wrong."

Oxley's eyes narrowed. He looked through an adjoining window. "You're right. The flaps are down. It looks like we're coming in for a landing. The pilot must have an emergency."

"Why didn't he alert us?"

At that moment they heard the landing gear drop. The ground was rising to meet them faster now. They flashed past houses and railroad tracks, and then the aircraft was over the end of the runway. The wheels thumped onto concrete and the engines howled in reverse thrust. The pilot stood on the brakes and soon eased off on the throttles as he turned the huge craft onto a taxiway.

A sign on the terminal read Welcome to El Paso.

Oxley stared speechless as Zolar blurted, "My God, we've come down in the United States!"

He ran forward and began beating frantically on the cockpit door. There was no reply until the huge plane came to a halt outside an Air National Guard hangar at the opposite end of the field. Only then did the cockpit door slowly crack open.

"What in hell are you doing? I'm ordering you to get back in the air immediately--" Zolar's words froze in his throat as he found himself staring down the muzzle of a gun pointed between his eyes.

The pilot was still seated in his seat, as were the copilot and flight engineer. Henry Moore stood in the doorway gripping a strange nine-millimeter automatic of his own design, while inside the cockpit Micki Moore was talking over the aircraft radio as she calmly aimed a Lilliputian .25-caliber automatic at the pilot's neck.

"Forgive the unscheduled stop, my former friends," said Moore in a commanding voice neither Zolar nor Oxley had heard before, "but as you can see there's been a change of plan."

Zolar squinted down the gun barrel, and his face twisted from shock to menacing anger. "You idiot, you blind idiot, do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Why, yes," Moore answered matter-of-factly. "Micki and I have hijacked your aircraft and its cargo of golden artifacts. I believe you're aware of the old maxim: There is no honor among thieves."

"If you don't get this plane in the air quickly," Oxley pleaded, "Customs agents will be swarming all over it."

"Now that you mention it, Micki and I did entertain the idea of turning the artifacts over to the authorities."

"You can't know what you're saying."

"Oh, I most certainly do, Charley, old pal. As it turns out, federal agents are more interested in you and your brother than Huascar's treasure."

"Where did you come from?" Zolar demanded.

"We merely caught a ride in one of the helicopters transporting the gold. The army engineers were used to our presence and paid no attention as we climbed aboard the plane. We hid out in one of the restrooms until the pilot left to confer with you and Charles on the airstrip. Then we seized the cockpit."

"Why would federal agents take your word for anything?" asked Oxley."

"In a manner of speaking, Micki and I were once agents ourselves," Moore briefly explained. "After we took over the cockpit, Micki radioed some old friends in Washington who arranged your reception."

Zolar looked as if he were about to tear Moore's lungs out whether he got shot in the attempt or not. "You and your lying wife made a deal for a share of the antiquities. Am I right?" He waited for a reply, but when Moore remained silent he went on. "What percentage did they offer you? Ten, twenty, maybe as high as fifty percent?"

"We made no deals with the government," Moore said slowly. "We knew you had no intention of honoring our agreement, and that you planned to kill us. We had planned to steal the treasure for ourselves, but as you can see, we had a change of heart."

"The way they act familiar with guns," said Oxley, "Cyrus was right. They are a pair of killers."

Moore nodded in agreement. "Your brother has an inner eye. It takes an assassin to know one."

A pounding came from outside the forward passenger door on the deck below. Moore gestured down the stairwell with his gun. "Go down and open it," he ordered Zolar and Oxley.

Sullenly, they did as they were told.

When the pressurized door was swung open, two men entered from a stairway that had been pushed up against the aircraft. Both wore business suits. One was a huge black man who looked as if he might have played professional football. The other was a nattily dressed white man. Zolar immediately sensed they were federal agents.

"Joseph Zolar and Charles Oxley, I am Agent David Gaskill with the Customs Service and this is Agent Francis Ragsdale of the FBI. You gentlemen are under arrest for smuggling illegal artifacts into the United States and for the theft of countless art objects from private and public museums, not excluding the unlawful forgery and sale of antiquities."

"What are you talking about?" Zolar demanded.

Gaskill ignored him and looked at Ragsdale with a big toothy smile. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Ragsdale nodded like a kid who had just been given a new disk player. "Yes, indeed, thank you."

As Gaskill cuffed Zolar and Oxley, Ragsdale read them their rights.

"You made good time," said Moore. "We were told you were in Calexico."

"We were on our way aboard a military jet fifteen minutes after word came down from FBI headquarters in Washington," replied Ragsdale.

Oxley looked at Gaskill, a look for the first time empty of fear and shock, a sudden look of shrewdness. "You'll never find enough evidence to convict us in a hundred years."

Ragsdale tilted his head toward the golden cargo. "What do you call that?"

"We're merely passengers," said Zolar, regaining his composure. "We were invited along for the ride by Professor Moore and his wife."

"I see. And suppose you tell me where all the stolen art and antiquities in your facility in Galveston came from?"

Oxley sneered. "Our Galveston warehouse is perfectly legitimate. You've raided it before and never found a thing."

If that's the case," said Ragsdale craftily, "how do you explain the tunnel leading from the Logan Storage Company to Zolar International's subterranean warehouse of stolen goods?"