Clive Cussler - Inca Gold

"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."