Clive Cussler - Inca Gold

Micki Moore was a good fifteen years younger than her husband. Like him, she had a slender figure, almost as thin as the seventies era fashion model she had once been. Her skin was on the dark side and the high, rounded cheekbones suggested American Indian genes somewhere in her ancestry. She was a good-looking woman, beautifully poised, with an elegance and regal bearing that made her stand out at university cocktail and dinner parties. Her gray eyes focused and then darted from one masked brother to another before coming to rest on the Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo.

"A truly magnificent piece of work," she said softly. "You never fully described what it was you wanted my husband and me to decipher."

"We apologize for the melodramatic precautions," Zolar said sincerely. "But as you can see, this Inca artifact is priceless, and until it is fully examined by experts such as you, we do not wish word of its existence to reach certain people who might attempt to steal it."

Henry Moore ignored the brothers and rushed to the table. He took a pair of reading glasses from a case in his breast pocket, slid them over his nose and peered closely at the glyphs on one arm of the suit. "Remarkable detail," he said admiringly. "Except for textiles and a few pieces of pottery, this is the most extensive display of iconography I've ever seen produced on any object from the Late Horizon era."

"Do you see any problem in deciphering the images?" asked Zolar.

"It will be a labor of love," said Moore, without taking his eyes from the golden suit. "But Rome wasn't built in a day. It will be a slow process."

Sarason was impatient. "We need answers as soon as possible."

"You can't rush me," Moore said indignantly. "Not if you want an accurate version of what the images tell us."

"He's right," said Oxley. "We can't afford faulty data."

"The Moores are being well paid for their efforts," Sarason said sternly. "Misinterpretations will cancel all payment."

Anger rising, Moore snapped, "Misinterpretations indeed! You're lucky my wife and I accepted your proposal. One look at what's on the table, and we're aware of the reasons behind your juvenile hocus-pocus games. Running around with masks over your faces as if you were holding up a bank. Total and utter nonsense."

"What are you saying?" Sarason demanded.

"Any historian worth his salt knows the Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo was stolen from Spain in the nineteen twenties and never recovered."

"How do you know this isn't another one that was recently discovered?"

Moore pointed to the first image of a panel that traveled from the left shoulder to the hand. "The symbol of a great warrior, a Chachapoyan general known as Naymlap who served the great Inca ruler Huascar. Legend claims he stood as high as any modern star basketball player and had blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. Judging from the size of the golden suit and my knowledge of its history, there is no doubt that this is Naymlap's mummy."

Sarason moved close to the anthropologist. "You and your wife just do your job, no mistakes, no more lectures."

Zolar quickly stepped in to defuse what was rapidly developing into a nasty confrontation. "Please excuse my associate, Dr. Moore. I apologize for his rude behavior, but I think you understand that we're all a little excited about finding the golden suit. You're quite right. This is Naymlap's mummy."

"How did you come by it?" asked Moore.

"I can't say, but I will promise you that it is going back to Spain as soon as it has been fully studied by experts such as you and your wife."

A canny smile curled Moore's lips. "Very scrupulous of you, whatever your name is, to send it back to its rightful owners. But not before my wife and I decode the instructions leading to Huascar's treasure."

Oxley muttered something unintelligible under his breath as Sarason stepped toward Moore. But Zolar stretched out an arm and held him back. "You see through our masquerade."

"I do."

"Shall I assume you wish to make a counterproposal, Dr. Moore?"

Moore glanced at his wife. She looked strangely withdrawn. Then he turned to Zolar. "If our expertise leads you to the treasure, I don't think a twenty percent share is out of line."

The brothers stared at one another for several moments, considering. Oxley and Zolar couldn't see Sarason's face behind the ski mask but they could see their brother's eyes blaze with fury.

Zolar nodded. "Considering the potential for incredible riches, I do believe Dr. Moore is being quite generous."

"I agree," said Oxley. "All things considered, the good professor's offer is not exorbitant." He held out his hand. "You and Mrs. Moore have a deal. If we find the treasure, your share is twenty percent."

Moore shook hands. He turned to his wife and smiled as if blissfully unaware of their death sentence. "Well, my dear, shall we get to work?"

THE DEMON OF DEATH

October 22, 1998

Washington, D.C.

She was waiting at the curb outside the terminal, her windblown cinnamon hair glistening under the morning sun, when Pitt walked out of the baggage area of Dulles airport. Congresswoman Loren Smith lifted the sunglasses that hid her incredible violet eyes, rose from behind the wheel, and perched on top of the car seat. She waved, her hands covered with supple leather driving gloves.

A tall woman with an exquisitely proportioned Sharon Stone body, she was wearing red leather pants and jacket over a black turtleneck sweater. Everyone within twenty meters, male and female, openly stared at her as she sat on top of the bright, fire engine red, 1953 Allard J2X sports car. She and the car were both classic works of stylish elegance, and they made a perfect match.

She threw Pitt a seductive look and said, "Hi, sailor, need a ride?"

He set his bag and a large metal case containing the jade box on the sidewalk, leaned over the low-slung body of the Allard and gave Loren a hard, quick kiss on the mouth. "You stole one of my cars."

"That's the thanks I get for playing hooky from a committee hearing to meet you at the airport?"

Pitt stared down at the Spartan vehicle that had won eight of the nine sports car races it had entered forty-five years earlier. There was not enough room for the two of them and his baggage in the small seating area, and the car had no trunk. "Where am I supposed to put my bags?"

She reached down on the passenger's seat and handed him a pair of bungee cords. "I came prepared. You can tie down your baggage on the trunk rack."

Pitt shook his head in wonderment. Loren was as bright and perceptive as they come. A five-term congresswoman from the state of Colorado, she was respected by her colleagues for her grasp of difficult issues and her uncanny gift for coming up with solid solutions. Vivacious and outgoing in the halls of Congress, Loren was a private woman, seldom showing up at dinner parties and political functions, preferring to stay close to her townhouse in Alexandria, studying her aides' recommendations on bills coming up for a vote and responding to her constituents' mail. Her only social interest outside her work was her sporadic affair with Pitt.

"Where's A1 and Rudi?" she asked, a look of tender concern in her eyes at seeing his unshaven face, haggard from exhaustion.

"On the next flight. They had a little business to clear up and return some equipment we borrowed."

After cinching his bags on a chrome rack mounted on the rear deck of the Allard, he opened the tiny passenger door, slid his long legs under the low dashboard and stretched them out to the firewall. "Dare I trust you to drive me home?"

Loren threw him a wily smile, nodded politely to the airport policeman who was motioning her to move on, shifted the Allard's three-speed gearbox into first gear, and mashed down the accelerator. The big Cadillac V-8 engine responded with a mighty roar, and the car leaped forward, rear tires screeching and smoking on the asphalt pavement. Pitt shrugged helplessly at the policeman as they whipped past him, furiously groping for the buckle of his seat belt.