Pitt looked at her for a long moment, his green eyes strangely soft and understanding. "There is nothing left to touch," he said finally. "Somebody beat you to it. Any artifacts that were in your sacred pool a month ago are gone. Only the bones of animals and sacrificial victims are left scattered on the bottom."

    Her face turned incredulous and the hazel eyes flew very wide. "Are you certain?"

    "Would you like proof?"

    "We have our own equipment. I'll dive into the pool and see for myself."

    "Not necessary," he advised.

    She turned and called to Miles Rodgers. "Let's get suited up."

    "You begin probing around in the silt and you will surely die," Pitt said, with all the emotion of a professor lecturing to a physics class.

    Maybe Shannon wasn't listening to Pitt, but Rodgers was. "I think we had better listen to what Dirk is saying."

    "I don't wish to sound nasty, but he lacks the necessary credentials to make a case."

    "What if he's right?" Rodgers asked innocently.

    "I've waited a long time to explore and survey the bottom of the pool. You and I came within minutes of losing our lives trying to unlock its secrets. I can't believe there isn't a time capsule of valuable antiquities down there."

    Pitt took the line leading down into the water and held it loosely in his hand. "Here is the verification. Pull on this line and I guarantee you'll change your mind."

    "You attached the other end?" she challenged him. "To what?"

    "A set of bones masquerading as a Spanish conquistador."

    "You're beyond belief," she said helplessly.

    It was a long time since a woman had stared at him like that. "Do you think I'm a head case? Do you think I enjoy this? I damn well don't enjoy spending my time saving your backside. Okay, you want to die and be buried in a thousand bits and pieces, enjoy the trip."

    Uncertainty crept into her expression. "You're not making sense."

    "Perhaps a little demonstration is in order." Pitt gently pulled in the line until it became taut. Then he gave it a hard jerk.

    For a moment nothing happened. Then a rumbling came from the bottom of the well, swelling in volume, sending tremors through the limestone walls. The violence of the explosion was electrifying. The underwater blast came like the eruption of a huge depth charge as a seething column of white froth and green slime burst out of the sinkhole, splattering everyone and everything standing within 20 meters (66 feet) of the edge. The thunder of the explosion rolled over the jungle as the spray fell back into the sinkhole, leaving a heavy mist that swirled into the sky and temporarily blocked out the sun.

 

    Shannon stood half-drenched and stared down into her beloved sacred well as if she couldn't make up her mind whether or not to be sick. Everyone around the edge stood like statues suddenly frozen in shock. Only Pitt looked as though he'd witnessed an everyday event.

    Fading incomprehension and the tentative beginnings of understanding appeared in Shannon's eyes. "How in God's name did you know. . ."

    "That there was a booby trap?" Pitt finished. "No great deduction. Whoever buried a good forty-five kilograms of high explosive under the skeleton made two major mistakes. One, why clean out every antiquity but the most obvious? And two, the bones couldn't have been more than fifty years old and the armor hasn't rusted enough to have been underwater for four centuries."

    "Who would have done such a thing?" asked Rodgers dazedly.

    "The same man who murdered Doc Miller," answered Pitt.

    "The imposter?"

    "More likely Amaru. The man who took Miller's place didn't want to risk exposure and investigation by Peruvian authorities, not before they cleaned out the City of the Dead. The Solperrzachaco had robbed the sacrificial well of its artifacts long before you arrived. That's why the imposter sent out a call for help when you and Shannon vanished in the sinkhole. It was all part of the plot to make your deaths look like an accident. Although he felt reasonably sure that you'd be sucked into the adjoining cavern by the underwater surge before you could fully search the bottom and realize all artifacts had been removed, he hedged his bets by lowering the phony conquistador into position purely as a red herring to blow you to pieces in the event the surge didn't carry you away."

    Shannon's eyes took on a saddened and disillusioned look. "Then all antiquities from the sacred well are gone."

    "You can take a small measure of cheer in knowing they were removed and not destroyed," said Pitt.

    "They'll turn up," said Giordino consolingly. "They can't remain hidden away in some rich guy's collection forever."

    "You don't understand the discipline of archaeology," Shannon said dully. "No scholar can study the artifacts, classify or trace them without knowing their exact site of origin. Now we can learn nothing of the people who once lived here and built the city. A vast archive, a time capsule of scientific information, has been irretrievably lost."

    "I'm sorry all your hopes and efforts have come to grief," Pitt said sincerely.

    "Grief, yes," she said, thoroughly defeated now. "More like a tragedy."

    Rudi Gunn walked back from the helicopter that was transporting Miller's body to the morgue in Lima. "Sorry to interrupt," he said to Pitt. "Our job is finished here. I suggest we pack up the helicopter, lift off, and rendezvous with Dr. Ortiz at the City of the Dead."

    Pitt nodded and turned to Shannon. "Well, shall we move on to the next disaster your antiquity looters have left us?"

 

 

    Dr. Alberto Ortiz was a lean, wiry old bird in his early seventies. He stood off to one side of the helicopter landing site dressed in a white duck shirt and matching pants. A long, flowing, white moustache drooped across his face, making him look like a wanted poster for an aging Mexican bandido. If flamboyance was his trademark, it was demonstrated by a wide-brimmed panama hat sporting a colorful band, a pair of expensive designer sandals, and a tall iced drink in one hand. A Hollywood casting director searching for someone to play a beachcomber in a South Seas epic would easily have decided that Dr. Ortiz fit the role to perfection. He was not what the NUMA men had pictured as Peru's most renowned expert on ancient culture.

    He came smiling to greet the newcomers, drink in left hand, right extended for shaking. "You're early," he said warmly in almost perfect English. "I didn't expect you for another two or three days."

    "Dr. Kelsey's project was cut short unexpectedly," said Pitt, grasping a strong, callused hand.

    "Is she with you?" asked Ortiz, peering around Pitt's broad shoulders.

    "She'll be here first thing in the morning. Something about using the afternoon to photograph the carvings on an altar stone beside the well." Pitt turned and made the introductions. "I'm Dirk Pitt and this is Rudi Gunn and Al Giordino. We're with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

    "A great pleasure to meet you gentlemen. I'm grateful for the opportunity to thank you in person for saving the lives of our young people."

    "Always a joy to play the palace again," said Giordino, looking up at the battle-scarred temple.

    Ortiz laughed at the distinct lack of enthusiasm. "I don't imagine you enjoyed your last visit."

    "The audience didn't throw roses, that's for sure."

    "Where would you like us to set up our tents, Doctor?" Gunn inquired.

    "Nothing of the sort," Ortiz said, his teeth flashing beneath the moustache. "My men have cleaned up a tomb that belonged to a rich merchant. Plenty of room, and it's dry during a rain. Not a four-star hotel, of course, but you should find it comfortable."

    "I hope the original owner isn't still in residence," Pitt said cautiously.

    "No, no, not at all," replied Ortiz, mistakenly taking him seriously. "The looters cleaned out the bones and any remains in their frantic search for artifacts."

    "We could bed down in the structure used by the looters for their headquarters," suggested Giordino, angling for more deluxe accommodations.

    "Sorry, my staff and I have already claimed it as our base of operations."

    Giordino offered Gunn a sour expression. "I told you to call ahead for reservations."

    "Come along, gentlemen," said Ortiz cheerfully. "I'll give you a guided tour of the Pueblo de los Muertos on our way to your quarters."

    "The inhabitants must have taken a page from the elephants," said Giordino.

    Ortiz laughed. "No, no, the Chachapoyas didn't come here to die. This was a sacred burial place that they believed was a way station on their journey to the next life."

    "No one lived here?" asked Gunn.

    "Only priests and the workers who built the funeral houses. It was off limits to everyone else."

    "They must have had a thriving business," Pitt said, staring at the maze of crypts spread throughout the valley and the honeycomb of tombs in the soaring cliffs.

    "The Chachapoyan culture was highly stratified but it did not have a royal elite like the Inca," explained Ortiz. "Learned elders and military captains ruled the various cities in the confederation. They and the wealthy traders could afford to erect elaborate mausoleums to rest between lives. The poor were put in adobe, human-shaped funeral statues."

    Gunn gave the archaeologist a curious look. "The dead were inserted into statues?"

    "Yes, the body of the deceased was placed in a crouched position, knees tucked under the chin. Then a cone of sticks was placed around the body as a cagelike support. Next, wet adobe was plastered around the support, forming a casing around the body. The final step was to sculpt a face and head on top that vaguely resembled the person inside. When the funeral receptacle was dry, the mourners inserted it into a previously dug niche or handy crevice in the face of the cliff."

    "The local mortician must have been a popular guy," observed Giordino.

    "Until I study the city in greater detail," said Ortiz, "I'd estimate that it was under continual construction and expansion as a cemetery between A.D. 1200 and A.D. 1500 before it was abandoned. Probably sometime after the Spanish conquest."

    "Did the Inca bury their dead here after they subdued the Chachapoyas?" asked Gunn.

    "Not to any great extent. I've found only a few tombs that indicate later Inca design and architecture."

    Ortiz led them along an ancient avenue made from stones worn smooth by the elements. He stepped inside a bottle-shaped funeral monument constructed of flat stones and decorated with rows of diamond-style motifs intermingled with zigzag designs. The workmanship was precise, with refined attention to detail, and the architecture was magnificent. The monument was topped by a narrow, circular dome 10 meters high (33 feet). The entrance was also formed in the shape of a bottle and was a tight fit, allowing only one man to squeeze through at a time. Steps rose from the street to the exterior threshold outside, and then dropped to the floor inside. The interior funeral chamber had a heavy, damp, musty smell that hit like a punch on the nose. Pitt sensed a haunting grandeur and the ghostly presence of the people who performed the final ceremony and closed the crypt for what they thought would be eternity, never envisaging that it would become a shelter for living men not born for another five hundred years.

    The stone floor and the burial niches were empty of funerary objects and swept clean. Curious, smiling faces of carved stone, the size of a serving platter, beamed midway around a corbeled ceiling that stepped up and out from the vertical walls. Hammocks had been strung from sculpted snake heads protruding from the lower walls with wide eyes and open, fanged mouths. Ortiz's workers had also spread straw mats on the floor. Even a small mirror hung from a nail driven into a tight seam between the rows of the masonry.

    "I judge it was built about 1380," said Ortiz. "A fine example of Chachapoyan architecture. All the comforts of home except a bath. There is, however, a mountain stream about fifty meters to the south. As for your other personal needs, I'm sure you'll make do."

    "Thank you, Dr. Ortiz," said Gunn. "You're most considerate."

    "Please, it's Alberto," he replied, raising a bushy white eyebrow. "Dinner at eighteen hundred hours at my place." He gave Giordino a benevolent stare. "I believe you know how to find your way about the city."

    "I've taken the tour," Giordino acknowledged.

 

    An invigorating bath in the icy water of the stream to wash off the day's sweat, a shave, a change into warmer clothes to ward off the cold of the Andes night air, and the men from NUMA trooped through the City of the Dead toward the Peruvian cultural authority's command post. Ortiz greeted them at the entrance and introduced four of his assistants from the National Institute of Culture in Chiclayo, none of whom spoke English.

    "A drink before dinner, gentlemen? I have gin, vodka, scotch, and pisco, a native white brandy."

    "You came well prepared," observed Gunn.

    Oritz laughed. "Just because we're working in difficult areas of the country does not mean we can't provide a few creature comforts."

    "I'll try your local brandy," said Pitt.

    Giordino and Gunn were not as adventurous and stuck with scotch on the rocks. After he did the honors, Ortiz gestured for them to sit in old-fashioned canvas lawn chairs.

    "How badly were the artifacts damaged during the rocket attack?" asked Pitt, launching the conversation.

    "What few objects the looters left behind were badly crushed by falling masonry. Most of it is shattered beyond restoration, I'm afraid."

    "You found nothing worth saving?"

    "A thorough job." Ortiz shook his head sadly. "Amazing how they worked so fast to excavate the ruins of the temple, remove the salvageable and undamaged antiquities, and escape with a good four tons of the stuff before we could arrive and catch them in the act. What the early Spanish treasure hunters and their sanctimonious missionary padres didn't plunder from the Inca cities and send back to Seville, the damned huagueros have found and sold. They steal antiquities faster than an army of ants can strip a forest."

    "Huagueros?" questioned Gunn.

    "The local term for robbers of ancient graves," explained Giordino.

    Pitt stared at him curiously. "Where did you learn that?"

    Giordino shrugged. "You hang around archaeologists, you're bound to pick up a few expressions."

    "It is hard to entirely fault the huaqueros," said Ortiz. "The poor farmers of the high country suffer from terrorism, inflation, and corruption that rob them of what little they can take from the earth. The wholesale looting of archaeological sites and the selling of artifacts by these people enable them to purchase a few small comforts to ease their dreadful poverty."

    "Then there is the good with the bad," observed Gunn.

    "Unfortunately, they leave nothing but a few scraps of bone and broken pottery for scientists like me to study. Entire buildings-temples and palaces-are gutted and demolished for their architectural ornamentation, the carvings sold for outrageously low prices. Nothing is spared. The stones from the walls are taken away and used as cheap building materials. Much of the architectural beauty of these ancient cultures has been destroyed and lost forever."

    "I gather it's a family operation," said Pitt.

    "Yes, the search for underground tombs has been carried on from one generation to another for hundreds of years. Fathers, brothers, uncles, and cousins all work together. It has become a custom, a tradition. Entire communities band together to dig for ancient treasures."

    "Tombs being their primary target," Gunn presumed.

    "That is where most of the ancient treasures are hidden. The riches of most ancient empires were buried with their rulers and the wealthy."

    "Big believers in you can take it with you," said Giordino.

    "From the Neanderthals to the Egyptians to the Incas," Ortiz continued, "they all believed in a continued life in the great beyond. Not reincarnation, mind you. But life as they lived on earth. So they believed in taking their most prized possessions with them into the grave. Many kings and emperors also took along their favorite wives, officials, soldiers, servants, and prized animals as well as treasure. Grave robbing is as old as prostitution."

    "A pity U.S. leaders don't follow in their footsteps," said Giordino sardonically. "Just think, when a President dies, he could order that he be buried with the entire Congress and half the bureaucracy."

    Pitt laughed. "A ritual most American citizens would applaud."

    "Many of my countrymen feel the same about our government," Ortiz agreed.

    Gunn asked, "How do they locate the graves?"

    "The poorer huaqueros search with picks and shovels and long metal rods to probe for buried tombs. The wellfunded theft and smuggling organizations, on the other hand, use modern, expensive metal detectors and lowlevel radar instruments."

    "Have you crossed paths with the Solpemachaco in the past?" asked Pitt.

    "At four other historical sites." Ortiz spat on the ground. "I was always too late. They're like a stench with an unknown source. The organization exists, that much is certain. I have seen the tragic results of their pillage. But I have yet to find hard evidence leading to the bastards who make the payoffs to the huaqueros and then smuggle our cultural heritage into an international underground market."

    "Your police and security forces can't put a stop to the flow of stolen treasures?" asked Gunn.

    "Stopping the huaqueros is like trying to catch mercury in your hands," answered Ortiz. "The profit is too enormous and there are too many of them. As you have found out for yourselves, any number of our military and government officials can be bought."

    "You have a tough job, Alberto," Pitt sympathized. "I don't envy you."

    "And a thankless one," Ortiz said solemnly. "To the poor hill people, I am the enemy. And the wealthy families avoid me like the plague because they collect thousands of precious artifacts for themselves."

    "Sounds as if you're in a no-win situation."

    "Quite true. My colleagues from other cultural schools and museums around the country are in a race to discover the great treasure sites, but we always lose to the huaqueros."

    "Don't you receive help from your government?" asked Giordino.

    "Obtaining funding from the government or private sources for archaeology projects is an uphill battle. A pity, but it seems no one wants to invest in history."

    The conversation drifted to other subjects after one of Ortiz's assistants announced that dinner was ready. Two courses consisted of a pungent beef stew accompanied by bowls of locally grown parched corn and beans. The only touches of more refined dining came from an excellent Peruvian red wine and a fruit salad. Dessert consisted of mangos with syrup.

    As they gathered around a warm campfire, Pitt asked Ortiz, "Do you think Tupac Amaru and his men have totally stripped the City of the Dead, or are there tombs and buildings that are still undiscovered?"

    Ortiz suddenly beamed like a strobe light. "The huaqueros and their Solpemachaco bosses were here only long enough to loot the obvious, the artifacts easily found on the surface. It will take years to conduct a thorough archaeological excavation of the Pueblo de los Muertos. I fervently believe the bulk of the treasures have yet to be found."

    Now that Ortiz was in a happy mood, his stomach warmed by numerous glasses of white brandy, Pitt circled around from left field. "Tell me, Alberto, are you an expert on legends dealing with lost Inca treasure after the Spanish came?"

    Ortiz lit a long, narrow cigar and puffed until the end turned red and smoke curled into the dank and increasingly cold night air. "I only know of a few. Tales of lost Inca treasure might not be found in abundant lots if my ancestral cultures had made detailed accounts of their everyday existence. But unlike the Mayans and Aztecs of Mexico, the cultures of Peru did not leave behind an abundance of hieroglyphic symbols. They never devised an alphabet or ideographic system of communication. Except for a scattering of designs on buildings, ceramic pots, and textiles, the records of their lives and legends are few."

    "I was thinking of the lost treasure of Huascar," said Pitt.

    "You've heard of that one?"

    "Dr. Kelsey recounted it. She described an immense golden chain that sounded a bit farfetched."

    Ortiz nodded. "That part of the legend happens to be true. The great Inca king, Huayna Capac, decreed that a huge gold chain be cast in honor of the birth of his son, Huascar. Many years later, after Huascar succeeded his father as king, he ordered the royal treasure to be smuggled from the Inca capital at Cuzco and hidden to keep it out of the hands of his brother Atahualpa, who later usurped the kingdom after a lengthy civil war. The vast hoard, besides the golden chain, included life-size statues, thrones, sun disks, and every insect and animal known to the Incas, all sculpted in gold and silver and set with precious gems."

    "I've never heard of a treasure that grand," said Gunn.

    "The Incas had so much gold they couldn't understand why the Spanish were so fanatical for it. The craze became part of the El Dorado fable. The Spanish died by the thousands searching for the treasure. The Germans and the English, who included Sir Walter Raleigh, all scoured the mountains and jungles, but none ever found it."

    "As I understand it," said Pitt, "the chain and the other art treasures were eventually transported to a land beyond the Aztecs and buried."

    Ortiz nodded. "So the story goes. Whether it was actually taken north by a fleet of ships has never been verified. It was reasonably proven, however, that the hoard was protected by Chachapoyan warriors who formed the royal guard for Inca kings after their confederation was conquered by Huayna Capac in 1480."

    "What is the history of the Chachapoyas?" asked Gunn.

    "Their name means Cloud People," replied Ortiz. "And their history has yet to be written. Their cities, as you well know from recent experience, are buried in one of the most impenetrable jungles of the world. As of this date, archaeologists have neither the funds nor the means to conduct extensive surveys and excavations on Chachapoyan ruins."

    "So they remain an enigma," said Pitt.

    "In more ways than one. The Chachapoya people, according to the Incas, were fair-skinned, with blue and green eyes. The women were said to be very beautiful and became highly prized by both the Incas and the Spanish. They were also quite tall. An Italian explorer found a skeleton in a Chachapoyan tomb that was well over two meters."

    Pitt was intrigued. "Close to seven feet?"

    "Easily," Ortiz answered.

    "Any possibility they might have been descendants of early explorers from the Old World, perhaps the Vikings who might have sailed across the Atlantic, up the Amazon, and settled in the Andes?"

    "Theories of early transoceanic migration to South America across both the Atlantic and the Pacific have always abounded," answered Ortiz. "The fancy term for pre-Columbian travel to and from other continents is diffusionism. An interesting concept, not well accepted but not entirely ignored either."

    "Is there evidence?" asked Giordino.

    "Mostly circumstantial. Ancient pottery found in Ecuador that has the same designs as the Ainu culture of northern Japan. The Spanish, as well as Columbus, reported seeing white men sailing large ships off Venezuela. The Portuguese found a tribe in Bolivia whose beards were more magnificent than the Europeans', contrary to the fact that most Indians lacked abundant facial hair. Reports of -livers and fishermen finding Roman or Grecian amphorae in the waters off Brazil come up routinely."

    The giant stone heads from the Olmec culture of Mexico show definite features of black Africans," said Pitt, "while any number of carved stone faces throughout the Mesoamerican cultures have Oriental characteristics."

    Ortiz nodded in agreement. "The serpent heads that decorate many of the Mayan pyramids and temples are the spitting image of dragon heads carved in Japan and China."

    "But is there hands-on proof?" asked Gunn.

    "No objects that can be conclusively proven as manufactured in Europe have yet to be found."

    "The skeptics have a strong case in the lack of pottery lathes or wheeled vehicles," Gunn added.

    "True," agreed Ortiz. "The Mayans did adopt the wheel for children's toys but never for practical use. Not surprising when you consider they had no beasts 'of burden until the Spanish introduced the horse and oxen."

    "But you would think they could have found a purpose for the wheel, say for hauling construction materials," Gunn persisted.

    "History tells us that the Chinese developed the wheelbarrow six hundred years before it found its way to Europe," Ortiz countered.

    Pitt downed the last of his brandy. "It doesn't seem possible an advanced civilization existed in such a remote region without some kind of outside influence."

    "The people living in the mountains today, descendants of the Chachapoyas, many of them still fair-skinned with blue and green eyes, speak of a godlike man who appeared among their ancestors from the eastern sea many centuries ago. He taught them building principles, the science of the stars, and the ways of religion."

    "He must have forgotten to teach them how to write," quipped Giordino.

    "Another nail in the coffin of pre-Columbian contact," said Gunn.

    "This holy man had thick white hair and a flowing beard," Ortiz continued. "He was extremely tall, wore a long white robe, and preached goodness and charity toward all. The rest of the story is too close to that of Jesus to be taken literally-- the natives must have introduced events from Christ's life into the ancient story after they were converted to Christianity. He traveled the land, healing the sick, making the blind see again, working all sorts of miracles. He even walked on water. The people raised temples to him and carved his likeness in wood and stone. None of these portraits, I might add, has ever been found. Almost verbatim, the same myth has come down through the ages from the early Mexican cultures in the form of Quetzalcoatl, the ancient god of old Mexico."

    "Do you believe any part of the legend?" asked Pitt.

    Ortiz shook his head. "Not until I excavate something substantial that I can positively authenticate. We may, however, have some answers quite soon. One of your universities in the United States is currently running DNA tests on Chachapoyan remains removed from tombs. If successful, they will be able to confirm whether the Chachapoyas came from Europe or evolved independently."

    "What about Huascar's treasure?" said Pitt, bringing the conversation back on track.

    "A discovery that would stun the world," Ortiz answered. "I'd like to think the hoard still exists in some forgotten cave in Mexico." Then he exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and stared at the evening stars. "The chain would be a fabulous discovery. But for an archaeologist, the great finds would be the huge solid gold sun disk and the royal golden mummies that vanished along with the chain."

    "Golden mummies," echoed Gunn. "Did the Incas preserve their dead like the Egyptians?"

    "The preservation process was not nearly as complex as that practiced by the Egyptians," explained Ortiz. "But the bodies of the supreme rulers, or Sapa Incas as they were called, were encased in gold and became cult objects in the people's religious practices. The mummies of the dead kings lived in their own palaces, were frequently reclothed with fresh wardrobes, served sumptuous feasts, and maintained harems of the most beautiful women. Chosen as attendants, I might add, not to indulge in necrophilia."

    Giordino stared over the shadows of the city. "Sounds like a waste of taxpayers' money."

    "A large body of priests supervised the upkeep," Ortiz continued, "acquiring a lucrative interest in keeping the dead kings happy. The mummies were often carried around the country in great splendor, as if they were still heads of state. Needless to say, this absurd love affair with the dead caused a great drain on Inca financial resources, helping immeasurably to topple the empire during the Spanish invasion."

    Pitt zipped his leather jacket against the cold and said, "While on board our ship, Dr. Kelsey received a message concerning a stolen suit of gold that was traced to a collector in Chicago."

    Ortiz looked thoughtful and nodded. "Yes, the Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo. It covered the mummy of a great general called Naymlap who was the right-hand advisor to an early Inca king. Before leaving Lima, I heard that American Customs agents had tracked it down, only to lose it again."

    "Lose it?" For some reason Pitt didn't feel vastly surprised.

    "The director of our National Cultural Ministry was about to board a plane to the United States to lay claim to the mummy and the body suit when he was informed that your Customs agents were too late. Thieves made off with it while they had the owner under surveillance."

    "Dr. Kelsey said that images engraved on the suit depicted the voyage of the fleet that carried the treasure to Mexico."

    "Only a few of the images were deciphered. Modern scholars never had a chance to study the suit properly before it was stolen from its case in the museum in Seville."

    "It's conceivable," suggested Pitt, "that whoever grabbed the suit this time is on the trail of the golden chain."

    "A credible conclusion," Ortiz agreed.

    "Then the thieves have an inside track," said Giordino.

    "Unless someone else discovers the Drake quipu," Pitt said slowly, "and gets there first."

    "Ah yes, the infamous jade box," Ortiz sighed skeptically. "A fanciful tale that has refused to die. So you also know about the legendary rope trick giving directions to the golden chain?"

    "You sound dubious," said Pitt.

    "No hardcore evidence. All reports are too flimsy to take seriously."

    "You could write a thick book about the superstitions and legends that were proven to be true."

    "I am a scientist and a pragmatist," said Ortiz. "If such a quipu exists, I would have to hold it in my own hands, and even then I wouldn't be fully convinced of its authenticity."

    "Would you think me mad if I told you I was going to hunt for it?" asked Pitt.

    "No madder than the thousands of men throughout history who have chased over the horizon after a nebulous dream." Ortiz paused, flicked the ash from his cigar, and then stared heavily at Pitt through somber eyes. "Be forewarned. The one who finds it, if it really exists, will be rewarded with success and then doomed to failure."

    Pitt stared back. "Why doomed to failure?"

    "An amauta, an educated Inca who could understand the text, and a quipu-mayoc, a clerk who recorded on the device, can't help you."

    "What are you telling me?"

    "Simply put, Mr. Pitt. The last people who could have read and translated the Drake quipu for you have been dead for over four hundred years."

 

    In a remote, barren part of the southwest desert, a few kilometers east of Douglas, Arizona, and only 75 meters (246 feet) from the border between Mexico and the United States, the hacienda La princesa loomed like a Moorish castle at an oasis. It was named by the original owner, Don Antonio Diaz, in honor of his wife, Sophia Magdalena, who died during childbirth and was entombed in an ornate, baroque crypt that stood enclosed within a high-walled garden. Diaz, a peon who became a miner, struck it rich and took an immense amount of silver out of the nearby Huachuca Mountains.

    The huge feudal estate rested on lands that were originally granted to Diaz by General, later President of Mexico, Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana, for helping to finance the despot's campaigns to subdue Texas and later launch a war against the United States. This was a disaster that Santa Ana compounded by selling the Mesilla Valley in southern Arizona to the United States, a transaction known as the Gadsden Purchase. The border shift left Diaz's hacienda in a new country a stone's throw from the old.

    The hacienda was passed down through the Diaz family until 1978, when the last surviving member, Maria Estala, sold it to a rich financier shortly before she died at ninety-four. The new owner, Joseph Zolar, made no mystery of the fact that he acquired the hacienda as a retreat for entertaining celebrities, high government officials, and wealthy business leaders on a lavish scale. Zolar's hacienda quickly became known as the San Simeon of Arizona. His high-profile guests were flown or bused to the estate and his parties were dutifully reported in all the gossip columns and photographed for the slick magazines around the country.

    An antiquarian and fanatical art collector, Zolar had amassed a vast accumulation of art objects and antiques, both good and bad. But every piece was certified by experts and government agents as having been legally sold from the country of origin and imported with the proper papers. He paid his taxes, his business dealings were aboveboard, and he never allowed his guests to bring drugs into his home. No scandal had ever stained Joseph Zolar.

    He stood on a roof terrace amid a forest of potted plants and watched as a private jet touched down on the estate runway that stretched across the desert floor. The jet was painted a golden tan with a bright purple stripe running along its fuselage. Yellow letters on the stripe read Zolar International. He watched as a man casually dressed in a flowered sport shirt and khaki shorts left the aircraft and settled in the seat of a waiting golf cart.

    The eyes below Zolar's surgically tightened lids glittered like gray crystal. The pinched, constantly flushed face complemented the thin, receding, brushed-back hair that was as dull red as Mexican saltillo tile. He was somewhere in his late fifties, with a face that was fathomless, a face that had rarely been out of an executive office or a boardroom, a face that was tempered by hard decisions and cold from issuing death warrants when he felt they were required. The body was small but hunched over like a vulture about to take wing. Dressed in a black silk jumpsuit, he wore the indifferent look of a Nazi concentration camp officer who considered death about as interesting as rain.

    Zolar waited at the top of the stairs as his guest climbed toward the terrace. They greeted each other warmly and embraced. "Good to see you in one piece, Cyrus."

    Sarason grinned. "You don't know how close you came to losing a brother."

    "Come along, I've held lunch for you." Zolar led Sarason through the maze of potted plants to a lavishly set table beneath a palapa roof of palm fronds. "I've selected an excellent chardonnay and my chef has prepared a delicious braised pork loin."

    "Someday I'm going to pirate him away from you," said Sarason.

    "Fat chance." Zolar laughed. "I've spoiled him. He enjoys too many perks to jump ship."

    "I envy your lifestyle."

    "And I yours. You've never lost your spirit of adventure. Always skirting death and capture by police in some desert or jungle when you could conduct business out of a luxurious corporate office and delegate the dirty work to others."

    "A nine-to-five existence was never in my blood," said Sarason. "I find wallowing in dirty dealings an exciting challenge. You should join me sometime."

    "No, thank you. I prefer the comforts of civilization."

    Sarason noticed a table with what looked like four weathered tree limbs about one meter in length lying across its surface. Intrigued, he walked over and studied them more closely. He recognized them as sun-bleached roots of cottonwood trees that had grown naturally into grotesque human-shaped figures, complete with torsos, arms and legs, and rounded heads. Faces were crudely carved in the heads and painted with childlike features. "New acquisitions?" he asked.

    "Very rare religious ceremonial idols belonging to an obscure tribe of Indians," answered Zolar.

    "How did you come by them?"

    "A pair of illegal artifact hunters found them in an ancient stone dwelling they discovered under the overhang of a cliff."

    "Are they authentic?"

    "Yes, indeed." Zolar took one of the idols and stood it on its feet. "To the Montolos, who live in the Sonoran Desert near the Colorado River, the idols represent the gods of the sun, moon, earth, and life-giving water. They were carved centuries ago and used in special ceremonies to mark the transition of boys and girls into young adulthood. The rite is full of mysticism and staged every two years. These idols are the very core of the Montolo religion."

    "What do you estimate they're worth?"

    "Possibly two hundred thousand dollars to the right collector."

    "That much?"

    Zolar nodded. "Providing the buyer doesn't know about the curse that stalks those who possess them."

    Sarason laughed. "There is always a curse."

    Zolar shrugged. "Who can say? I do have it on good authority that the two thieves have suffered a run of bad luck. One was killed in an auto accident and the other has contracted some sort of incurable disease."

    "And you believe that hokum?"

    "I only believe in the finer things of life," said Zolar, taking his brother by the arm. "Come along. Lunch awaits."

    After the wine was poured by a serving lady, they clinked glasses and Zolar nodded at Sarason. "So, brother, tell me about Peru."

    It always amused Sarason that their father had insisted on his sons and daughters adopting and legalizing different surnames. As the oldest, only Zolar bore the family name. The far-flung international trade empire that the senior Zolar had amassed before he died was divided equally between his five sons and two daughters. Each had become a corporate executive officer of either an art and antique gallery, an auction house, or an import/export firm. The family's seemingly separate operations were in reality one entity, a jointly owned conglomerate secretly known as the Solpemachaco. Unknown and unregistered with any international government financial agencies or stock markets, its managing director was Joseph Zolar in his role as family elder.

    "Nothing short of a miracle that I was able to save most of the artifacts and successfully smuggle them out of the country after the blunders committed by our ignorant rabble. Not to mention the intrusion by members of our own government."

    "U.S. Customs or drug agents?" asked Zolar.

    "Neither. Two engineers from the National Underwater and Marine Agency. They showed up out of nowhere when Juan Chaco sent out a distress call after Dr. Kelsey and her photographer became trapped in the sacred well."

    "How did they cause problems?"

    Sarason related the entire story from the murder of the true Dr. Miller by Amaru to the escape of Pitt and the others from the Valley of the Viracocha to the death of Juan Chaco. He finished by giving a rough tally of the artifacts he had salvaged from the valley, and how he arranged to have the cache transported to Callao, then smuggled out of Peru in a secret cargo compartment inside an oil tanker owned by a subsidiary of Zolar International. It was one of two such ships used for the express purpose of slipping looted and stolen art in and out of foreign countries while transporting small shipments of crude oil.

    Zolar stared into the desert without seeing it. "The Aztec Star. She is scheduled to reach San Francisco in four days."

    "That puts her in brother Charles's sphere of activity."

    "Yes, Charles has arranged for your shipment to be transported to our distribution center in Galveston where he will see to the restoration of the artifacts." Zolar held his glass up to be refilled. "How is the wine?"

    "A classic," answered Sarason, "but a bit dry for my taste."

    "Perhaps you'd prefer a sauvignon blanc from Touraine. It has a pleasing fruitiness with a scent of herbs."

    "I never acquired your taste for fine wines, brother. I'll settle for a beer."

    Zolar did not have to instruct his serving lady. She quietly left them and returned in minutes with an iced glass and a bottle of Coors beer.

    "A pity about Chaco," said Zolar. "He was a loyal associate."

    "I had no choice. He was running scared after the fiasco in the Valley of Viracocha and made subtle threats to unveil the Solpemachaco. It would not have been wise to allow him to fall into the hands of the Peruvian Investigative Police."

    "I trust your decisions, as I always have. But there is still Tupac Amaru. What is his situation?"

    "He should have died," replied Sarason. "Yet when I returned to the temple after the attack of our gun-happy mercenaries, I found him buried under a pile of rubble and still breathing. As soon as the artifacts were cleared out and loaded aboard three additional military helicopters, whose flight crews I was forced to buy off at a premium, I paid the local huaqueros to carry him to their village for care. He should be back on his feet in a few days."

    "You might have been wise to remove Amaru too."

    "I considered it. But he knows nothing that could lead international investigators to our doorstep."

    "Would you like another serving of pork?"

    "Yes, please."

    "Still, I don't like having a mad dog loose around the house."

    "Not to worry. Oddly, it was Chaco who gave me the idea of keeping Amaru on the payroll."

    "Why, so he can murder little old ladies whenever the mood strikes him?"

    "Nothing so ludicrous." Sarason smiled. "The man may well prove to be a valuable asset."

    "You mean as a hired killer."

    "I prefer to think of him as someone who eliminates obstacles. Let's face it, brother. I can't continue eliminating our enemies by myself without risk of eventual discovery and capture. The family should consider itself fortunate that I am not the only one who has the capacity to kill if necessary. Amaru makes an ideal executioner. He enjoys it."

    "Just be sure you keep him on a strong leash when he's out of his cage."

    "Not to worry," said Sarason firmly. Then he changed the subject. "Any buyers in mind for our Chachapoyan merchandise?"

    "A drug dealer by the name of Pedro Vincente," replied Zolar. "He hungers after anything that's pre-Columbian. He also pays a cash premium since it's a way for him to launder his drug profits."

    "And you take the cash and use it to finance our underground art and artifact operations."

    "An equitable arrangement for all concerned."

    "How soon before you make the sale?"

    "I'll set up a meeting with Vincente right after Sister Marta has your shipment cleaned up and ready for display. You should have your share of the profits within ten days."

    Sarason nodded and gazed at the bubbles in his beer. "I think you see through me, Joseph. I'm seriously considering retiring from the family business while I'm still healthy."

    Zolar looked at him with a shifty grin. "You do and you'll be throwing away two hundred million dollars."

    "What are you talking about?"

    "Your share of the treasure."

    Sarason paused with a forkful of pork in front of his mouth. "What treasure?"

    "You're the last of the family to learn what ultimate prize is within our grasp."

    "I don't follow you."

    "The object that will lead us to Huascar's treasure." Zolar looked at him slyly for a moment, then smiled. "We have the Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo."

    The fork dropped to the plate as Sarason stared in total incredulity. "You found Naymlap's mummy encased in his suit of gold? It is actually in your hands?"

    "Our hands, little brother. One evening, while searching through our father's old business records, I came upon a ledger itemizing his clandestine transactions. It was he who masterminded the mummy's theft from the museum in Spain."

    "The old fox, he never said a word."

    "He considered it the highlight of his plundering career, but too hot a subject to reveal to his own family."

    "How did you track it down?"

    "Father recorded the sale to a wealthy Sicilian mafioso. I sent our brother Charles to investigate, not expecting him to learn anything from a trail over seventy years old. Charles found the late mobster's villa and met with the son, who said his father had kept the mummy and its suit hidden away until he died in 1984 at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. The son then sold the mummy on the black market through his relatives in New York. The buyer was a rich junk dealer in Chicago by the name of Rummel."

    "I'm surprised the son spoke to Charles. Mafia families are not noted for revealing their involvement with stolen goods."

    "He not only spoke," said Zolar, "but received our brother like a long=lost relative and cooperated wholeheartedly by providing the name of the Chicago purchaser."

    "I underestimated Charles," Sarason said, finishing off his final morsel of braised pork. "I wasn't aware of his talent for obtaining information."

    "A cash payment of three million dollars helped immeasurably."

    Sarason frowned. "A bit generous, weren't we? The suit can't be worth more than half that much to a collector with deep pockets who has to keep it hidden."

    "Not at all. A cheap investment if the engraved images on the suit lead us to Huascar's golden chain."

    "The ultimate prize," Samson repeated his brother's phrase. "No single treasure in world history can match its value."

    "Dessert?" Zolar asked. "A slice of chocolate apricot torte?"

    "A very small slice and coffee, strong," answered Sarason. "How much extra did it cost to buy the suit from the junk dealer?"

    Zolar nodded, and again his serving lady silently complied. "Not a cent. We stole it. As luck would have it, our brother Samuel in New York had sold Rummel most of his collection of illegal pre-Columbian antiquities and knew the location of the concealed gallery that held the suit. He and Charles worked together on the theft."

    "I still can't believe it's in our hands."

    "A near thing too. Charles and Sam barely smuggled it from Rummel's penthouse before Customs agents stormed the place."

    Do you think they were tipped of?"

    Zolar shook his head. "Not by anyone on our end. Our brothers got away clean."

    "Where did they take it?" asked Sarason.

    Zolar smiled, but not with his eyes. "Nowhere. The mummy is still in the building. They rented an apartment six floors below Rummel and hid it there until we can safely move it to Galveston for a proper examination. Both Rummel and the Customs agents think it was already smuggled out of the building by a moving van."

    "A nice touch. But what happens now? The images engraved in the gold body casing have to be deciphered. Not a simple exercise."

    "I've hired the finest authorities on Inca art to decode and interpret the glyphs. A husband and wife team. He's an anthropologist and she's an archaeologist who excels as a decoding analyst with computers."

    "I should have known you'd cover every base," said Sarason, stirring his coffee. "But we'd better hope their version of the text is correct, or we'll be spending a lot of time and money chasing up and down Mexico after ghosts."

    Time is on our side," Zolar assured him confidentially. "Who but us could possibly have a clue to the treasure's burial site?"

 

    After a fruitless excursion to the archives of the Library of Congress, where he had hoped to find documentary evidence leading to the Concepcion's ultimate fate, Julien Perlmutter sat in the vast reading room. He closed a copy of the diary kept by Francis Drake and later presented to Queen Elizabeth, describing his epic voyage. The diary, lost for centuries, had only recently been discovered in the dusty basement of the royal archives in England.

    He leaned his great bulk back in the chair and sighed. The diary added little to what he already knew. Drake had sent the Concepcion back to England under the command of the Golden Hind's sailing master, Thomas Cuttill. The galleon was never seen again and was presumed lost at sea with all hands.

    Beyond that, the only mention of the fate of the Concepcion was unverified. It came from a book Perlmutter could recall reading on the Amazon River, published in 1939 by journalist/explorer Nicholas Bender, who followed the routes of the early explorers in search of El Dorado. Perlmutter called up the book from the library staff and reexamined it. In the Note section there was a she-t reference to a 1594 Portuguese survey expedition that had come upon an Englishman living with a tribe of local inhabitants beside the river. The Englishman claimed that he had served under the English sea dog, Francis Drake, who placed him in command of a Spanish treasure galleon that was swept into a jungle by an immense tidal wave. The Portuguese thought the man quite mad and continued on their mission, leaving him in the village where they found him.

    Perlmutter made a note of the publisher. Then he signed the Drake diary and Bender's book back to the library staff and caught a taxi home. He felt discouraged, but it was not the first time he had failed to run down a clue to a historical puzzle from the twenty-five million books and forty million manuscripts in the library. The key to unlocking the mystery of the Concepcion, if there was one, had to be buried somewhere else.

    Perlmutter sat in the backseat of the cab and stared out the window at the passing automobiles and buildings without seeing them. He knew from experience that each research project moved at a pace all its own. Some threw out the key answers with a shower of fireworks. Others entangled themselves in an endless maze of dead ends and slowly died without a solution. The Concepcion enigma was different. It appeared as a shadow that eluded his grip. Did Nicholas Bender quote a genuine source, or did he embellish a myth as so many nonfiction authors were prone to do?

    The question was still goading his mind when he walked into the clutter that was his office. A ship's clock on the mantel read three thirty-five in the afternoon. Still plenty of time to make calls before most businesses closed. He settled into a handsome leather swivel chair behind his desk and punched in the number for New York City information. The operator gave him the number of Bender's publishing house almost before he finished asking for it. Then Perlmutter poured a snifter of Napoleon brandy and waited for his call to go through. No doubt one more wasted effort, he thought. Bender was probably dead by now and so was his editor.

    "Falkner and Massey," answered a female voice heavy with the city's distinct accent.

    "I'd like to talk to the editor of Nicholas Bender, please."

    Nicholas Bender?"

    "He's one of your authors."

    "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know the name."

    "Mr. Bender wrote nonfiction adventure books a long time ago. Perhaps someone who has been on your staff for a number of years might recall him?"

    "I'll direct you to Mr. Adams, our senior editor. He's been with the company longer than anyone I know."

    "Thank you."

    There was a good thirty-second pause, and then a man answered. "Frank Adams here."

    "Mr. Adams, my name is St. Julien Perlmutter."

    "A pleasure, Mr. Perlmutter. I've heard of you. You're down in Washington, I believe."

    "Yes, I live in the capital."

    "Keep us in mind should you decide to publish a book on maritime history."

    "I've yet to finish any book I started." Perlmutter laughed. "We'll both grow old waiting for a completed manuscript from me."

    "At seventy-four, I'm already old," said Adams congenially.

    "The very reason I rang you," said Perlmutter. "Do you recall a Nicholas Bender?"

    "I do indeed. He was somewhat of a soldier of fortune in his youth. We've published quite a few of the books he wrote describing his travels in the days before globetrotting was discovered by the middle class."

    "I'm trying to trace the source of a reference he made in a book called On the Trail of El Dorado."

    "That's ancient history. We must have published that book back in the early forties."

    "Nineteen thirty-nine to be exact."

    "How can I help you?"

    "I was hoping Bender might have donated his notes and manuscripts to a university archive. I'd like to study them."

    "I really don't know what he did with his material," said Adams. "I'll have to ask him."

    "He's still alive?" Perlmutter asked in surprise.

    "Oh dear me, yes. I had dinner with him not more than three months ago."

    "He must be in his nineties."

    "Nicholas is eighty-four. I believe he was just twenty-five when he wrote On the Trail of El Dorado. That was only the second of twenty-six books we published for him. The last was in 1978, a book on hiking in the Yukon."

    "Does Mr. Bender still have all his mental faculties?"

    "He does indeed. Nicholas is as sharp as an icepick despite his poor health."

    "May I have a number where I can reach him?"

    "I doubt whether he'll take any calls from strangers. Since his wife died, Nicholas has become somewhat of a recluse. He lives on a small farm in Vermont, sadly waiting to die."

    "I don't mean to sound heartless," said Perlmutter. "But it is most urgent that I speak to him."

    "Since you're a respected authority on maritime lore and a renowned gourmand, I'm sure he wouldn't mind talking to you. But first, let me pave the way just to play safe. What is your number should he wish to call you direct?"

    Perlmutter gave Adams the phone number for the line he used only for close friends. "Thank you, Mr. Adams. If I ever do write a manuscript on shipwrecks, you'll be the first editor to read it."

    He hung up, ambled into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator, expertly shucked a dozen Gulf oysters, poured a few drops of Tabasco and sherry vinegar into the open shells, and downed them accompanied by a bottle of Anchor Steam beer. His timing was perfect. He had no sooner polished off the oysters and dropped the empty bottle in a trash compactor when the phone rang.

    "Julien Perlmutter here."

    "Hello," replied a remarkably deep voice. "This is Nicholas Bender. Frank Adams said you wished to speak to me."

    "Yes, sir, thank you. I didn't expect you to call me so soon."

    "Always delighted to talk to someone who has read my books," said Bender cheerfully. "Not many of you left."

    "The book I found of interest was On the Trail of El Dorado."

    "Yes, Yes, I nearly died ten times during that trek through hell."

    "You made a reference to a Portuguese survey mission that found a crewman of Sir Francis Drake living among the natives along the Amazon River."

    "Thomas Cuttill," Bender replied without the slightest hesitation. "I recall including the event in my book, yes."

    "I wonder if you could refer me to the source of your information," said Perlmutter, his hopes rising with Bender's quick recollection.

    "If I may ask, Mr. Perlmutter, what exactly is it you are pursuing?"

    "I'm researching the history of a Spanish treasure galleon captured by Drake. Most reports put the ship lost at sea on its way back to England. But according to your account of Thomas Cuttill, it was carried into a rain forest on the crest of a tidal wave."

    "That's quite true," replied Bender. "I'd have looked for her myself if I had thought there was the slightest chance of finding anything. But the jungle where she disappeared is so thick you'd literally have to stumble and fall on the wreck before you'd see it."

    "You're that positive the Portuguese account of finding Cuttill is not just a fabrication or a myth?"

    "It is historical fact. There is no doubt about that."

    "How can you be so sure?"

    "I own the source."

    Perlmutter was momentarily confused. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bender. I miss your point."

    "The point is, Mr. Perlmutter, I have in my possession the journal of Thomas Cuttill."

    "The hell you say?" Perlmutter blurted.

    "Indeed," Bender answered triumphantly. "Cuttill gave it to the leader of the Portuguese survey party with the request that it be sent to London. The Portuguese, however, turned it over to the viceroy at Macapa. He included it with dispatches he forwarded to Lisbon, where it passed through any number of hands before ending up in an antique bookstore, where I bought it for the equivalent of thirty-six dollars. That was a lot of money back in 1937, at least to a lad of twenty-three who was wandering the globe on a shoestring."

    "The journal must be worth considerably more than thirty-six dollars today."

    "I'm sure of it. A dealer once offered me ten thousand for it."

    "You turned him down?"

    "I've never sold mementos of my journeys so someone else could profit."

    "May I fly up to Vermont and read the journal?" asked Perlmutter cautiously.

    "I'm afraid not."

    Perlmutter paused as he wondered how to persuade Bender to allow him to examine Cuttill's journal. "May I ask why?"

    "I'm a sick old man," Bender replied, "whose heart refuses to stop."

    "You certainly don't sound ill."

    "You should see me. The diseases I picked up during my travels have returned to ravage what's left of my body. I am not a pretty sight, so I rarely entertain visitors. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Perlmutter. I'll send you the book as a gift."

    "My God, sir, you don't have to--"

 

    "No, no, I insist. Frank Adams told me about your magnificent library on ships. I'd rather someone like you, who can appreciate the journal, possess it rather than a collector who simply puts it on a shelf to impress his friends."

    "That's very kind of you," said Perlmutter sincerely. "I'm truly grateful for your kind generosity."

    "Take it and enjoy," Bender said graciously. "I assume you'd like to study the journal as soon as possible."

    "I don't want to inconvenience you."

    "Not at all, I'll send it Federal Express so you'll have it in your hands first thing tomorrow."

    "Thank you, Mr. Bender. Thank you very much. I'll treat the journal with every bit of the respect it deserves."

    "Good. I hope you find what you're looking for."

    "So do I," said Perlmutter, his confidence soaring over the breakthrough. "Believe me, so do I."

 

 

    At twenty minutes after ten o'clock the next morning, Perlmutter threw open the door before the Federal Express driver could punch the doorbell button. "You must be expecting this, Mr. Perlmutter, " said the young blackhaired man, wearing glasses and a friendly smile.

    "Like a child waiting for Santa." Perlmutter laughed, signing for the reinforced envelope.

    He hurried into his study, pulling the tab and opening the envelope as he walked. He sat at his desk, slipped on his glasses, and held the journal of Thomas Cuttill in his hands as if it were the Holy Grail. The cover was the skin of some unidentifiable animal and the pages were yellowed parchment in a state of excellent preservation. The ink was brown, probably a concoction Cuttill had managed to brew from the root of some tree. There were no more than twenty pages. The entries were written in the quaint Elizabethan prose of the day. The handwriting seemed labored, with any number of misspellings, indicating a man who was reasonably well educated for the times. The first entry was dated March 1578, but was written much later:

 

Mine strange historie of the passte sexteen yeares, by Thomas Cuttill, formerly of Devonshire.

    It was the account of a shipwrecked sailor, cast away after barely surviving the sea's violent fury, only to endure incredible hardships in a savage land in his unsuccessful attempt to return home. As he read the passages, beginning with Cuttill's departure from England with Drake, Perlmutter noted that it was written in a more honest style than narratives of later centuries, which were littered with sermons, romantic exaggerations, and clichés. Cuttill's persistence, his will to survive, and his ingenuity in overcoming terrible obstacles without once begging for the help of God made a profound impression on Perlmutter. Cuttill was a man he would like to have known.

    After finding himself the only survivor on the galleon after the tidal wave carried it far inland, Cuttill chose the unknown horrors of the mountains and jungle rather than capture and torture by the avenging Spanish, who were mad as wasps at the audacious capture of their treasure galleon by the hated Englishman, Drake. All Cuttill knew was that the Atlantic Ocean lay somewhere far to the east. How far, he could not even guess. Reaching the sea, and then somehow finding a friendly ship that might carry him back to England would be nothing short of a miracle. But it was the only path open to him.

    On the western slopes of the Andes the Spanish had already created colonies of large estates, now worked by the once-proud Incas, who were enslaved and greatly reduced in numbers by inhumane treatment and infection from measles and smallpox. Cuttill crept through the estates under cover of darkness, stealing food at every opportunity. After two months of traveling a few short kilometers each night to elude the Spanish and remain out of sight of any Indians who might give him away, he crossed over the continental divide of the Andes, through the isolated valleys, and descended into the green hell of the Amazon River Basin.

    From that point on, Cuttill's life became even more of a nightmare. He struggled through unending swamps up to his waist, fought his way through forests so thick every meter of growth had to be cut away with his knife. Swarms of insects, snakes, and alligators were a constant peril, the snakes often attacking without warning. He suffered from dysentery and fever but still struggled on, often covering only 100 meters (328 feet) during daylight. After several months, he stumbled into a village of hostile natives, who immediately tied him with ropes and kept him imprisoned as a slave for five years.

    Cuttill finally managed to escape by stealing a dugout canoe and paddling down the Amazon River at night under a waning moon. Contracting malaria, he came within an inch of dying, but as he drifted unconscious in his canoe he was found by a tribe of long-haired women who nursed him back to health. It was the same tribe of women the Spanish explorer Francisco de Orellana had discovered during his futile search for El Dorado. He named the river Amazonas in honor of the Amazon warriors of Greek legend because the native women could draw a bow with any man.

    Cuttill introduced a number of labor-saving devices to the women and the few men who lived with them. He built a potter's wheel and taught them how to make huge intricate bowls and water vessels. He constructed wheelbarrows and waterwheels for irrigation, and showed them how to use pulleys to lift heavy weights. Soon looked upon as a god, Cuttill made an enjoyable life among the tribe. He took three of the most attractive women as wives and quickly produced several children.

    His desire to see home again slowly dimmed. A bachelor when he left England, he was sure there would be no relatives or old shipmates left to greet his return. And then there was the possibility that Drake, a stern disciplinarian, would demand punishment for losing the Concepcion.

    No longer physically capable of suffering the deprivations and hardships of along journey, Cuttill reluctantly decided to spend the remaining years of his life on the banks of the Amazon. When the Portuguese survey party passed through, he gave them his journal, requesting that it be somehow sent to England and placed in the hands of Francis Drake.

    After Perlmutter finished reading the journal, he leaned back in his swivel chair, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Any doubts he might have had in the back of his mind about the authenticity of the journal had quickly evaporated. The writing on the parchment showed strong, bold strokes, hardly the work of a madman who was sick and dying. Cuttill's descriptions did not seem fabricated or embellished. Perlmutter felt certain the experiences and hardships suffered by Francis Drake's sailing master truly occurred, and that the account was honestly set down by someone who lived what he wrote.

    Perlmutter went back to the heart of his quest, Cuttill's brief mention of the treasures left on board the Concepcion by Drake. He resettled his glasses on his imposing red nose and turned to the final entry of the narrative:

 

Me mind is as set as a stout ship before a narth winde. I shalle not retarn to mye homelande. I feare Captaan Drake was maddened for me not bringen the achant tresures and the jaade boxe withe the notted stringe to England soos it cud be preezentid to guude Queen Bess. I left it withe the wraaked ship. I shalle be baryed heer among the peapol who have becume my famly. Writen bye the hande of Thomas Cuttill, sailing mastere of the Golden Hinde this unknown day in the yeare 1594

 

    Perlmutter slowly looked up and stared at a seventeenth-century Spanish painting on his wall, depicting a fleet of Spanish galleons sailing across a sea under the golden orange glow of a setting sun. He had found it in a bazaar in Segovia and took it home for a tenth of its real value. He gently closed the fragile journal, lifted his bulk from the chair and began to pace around the room, hands clasped behind his back.

    A crewman of Francis Drake had truly lived and died somewhere along the Amazon River. A Spanish galleon was thrown into a coastal jungle by an immense tidal wave. And a jade box containing a knotted cord did exist at one time. Could it still lie amid the rotting timbers of the galleon, buried deep in a rain forest? A four-hundred-year-old mystery had suddenly surfaced from the shadows of time and revealed an enticing clue. Perlmutter was pleased with his successful investigative effort, but he well knew that confirmation of the myth was merely the first enticing step in a hunt for treasure.

    The next trick, and the most perplexing one, was to narrow the theater of search to as small a stage as possible.

 

    Hiram Yaeger adored his big supercomputer as much as he did his wife and children, perhaps more, he could seldom tear himself away from the images he projected on his giant monitor to go home to his family. Computers were his life from the first time he looked at the screen on a monitor and typed out a command. The love affair never cooled. If anything it grew more passionate with the passing years, especially after he constructed a monster unit of his own design for NUMA's vast oceans data center. The incredible display of information-gathering power at his beck and call never ceased to astound him. He caressed the keyboard with his fingers as though it were a living entity, his excitement blossoming whenever bits and pieces of data began coming together to form a solution.

    Yaeger was hooked into a vast high-speed computing network with the capacity to transfer enormous amounts of digital data between libraries, newspaper morgues, research laboratories, universities, and historic archives anywhere in the world. The "data superhighway," as it was called, could transmit billions of bits of information in the blink of a cursor. By tapping into the gigabit network, Yaeger began retrieving and assembling enough data to enable him to lay out a search grid with a 60 percent probability factor of containing the four-century-old landlocked galleon.

    He was so deeply involved with the search for the Nuestra Senora de la Concepcion that he did not notice nor hear Admiral James Sandecker step into his sanctum sanctorum and sit down in a chair behind him.

    The founder and first director of NUMA was small in stature but filled with enough testosterone to fuel the offensive line of the Dallas Cowboys. A trim fifty-eight, and a fitness addict, he ran five miles every morning from his apartment to the imposing glass building that housed two of the five thousand engineers, scientists, and other employees that formed NUMA, the undersea counterpart of the space agency NASA. His head was covered by straight flaming red hair, graying at the temples and parted in the middle, while his chin bristled with a magnificent Vandyke beard. Despite his addiction to health and nutrition, he was never without a huge cigar made from tobacco personally selected and rolled for him by the owner of a plantation in Jamaica.

    Under his direction NUMA had taken the field of oceanography and made it as popular as space science. His persuasive pleas to Congress for funding, supported by twenty top universities with schools in the marine sciences and a host of large corporations investing in underwater projects, had enabled NUMA to take, great strides in deep sea geology and mining, marine archaeology, biological studies of sea life, and studies of the effects of oceans on the earth's climate. One of his greatest contributions, perhaps, was supporting Hiram Yaeger's huge computer network, the finest and largest archive of ocean sciences in the world.

    Sandecker was not universally admired by all of Washington's bureaucracy, but he was respected as a hard driving, dedicated, and honest man, and his relationship with the man in the Oval Office of the White House was warm and friendly.

    "Making any progress?" he asked Yaeger.

    "Sorry, Admiral." Yaeger spoke without turning around. "I didn't see you come in. I was in the midst of collecting data on the water currents off Ecuador."

    "Don't stroke me, Hiram," Sandecker said, with the look of a ferret on a hunt. "I know what you're up to."

    "Sir?"

    "You're searching for a stretch of coastline where a tidal wave struck in 1578."

    "A tidal wave?"

    "Yes, you know, a big wall of water that barreled in from the sea and carried a Spanish galleon over a beach and into a jungle." The admiral puffed out a cloud of noxious smoke and went on. "I wasn't aware that I had authorized a treasure hunt on NUMA's time and budget."

    Yaeger paused and swiveled around in his chair. "You know?"

    "The word is knew. Right from the beginning."

    "Do you know what you are, Admiral?"

    "A canny old bastard who can read minds," he said with some satisfaction.

    "Did your Ouija board also tell you the tidal wave and the galleon are little more than folklore?"

    "If anyone can smell fact from fiction, it's our friend Dirk Pitt," Sandecker said inflexibly. "Now what have you dug up?"

    Yaeger smiled wanly and answered. "I began by dipping into various Geographic Information Systems to determine a logical site for a ship to remain hidden in a jungle over four centuries somewhere between Lima and Panama City. Thanks to global positioning satellites, we can look at details of Central and South America that were never mapped before. Maps showing tropical rain forests that grow along the coastline were studied first. I quickly dismissed Peru because its coastal regions are deserts with little or no vegetation. That still left over a thousand kilometers of forested shore along northern Ecuador and almost all of Colombia. Again, I was able to eliminate about forty percent of the coastline with geology too steep or unfavorable for a wave with enough mass and momentum to carry a five-hundred-and-seventy-ton ship any distance overland. Then I knocked off another twenty percent for open grassland areas without thick trees or other foliage that could hide the remains of a ship."

    "That still leaves Pitt with a search area four hundred kilometers in length."

    "Nature can drastically alter the environment in five hundred years," said Yaeger. "By starting with antique maps drawn by the early Spaniards, and examining records of changes that occurred in the geology and landscape, I was able to decrease the length of the search grid another hundred and fifty kilometers."

    "How did you compare the modern terrain with the old?"

    "With three-dimensional overlays," replied Yaeger. "By either reducing or increasing the scale of the old charts to match the latest satellite maps, and then overlaying one upon the other, any variations of the coastal jungles since the galleon vanished became readily apparent. I found that much of the heavily forested coastal jungles had been cut down over the centuries for farmland."

    "Not enough," Sandecker said irritably, "not nearly enough. You'll have to whittle the grid down to no more than twenty kilometers if you want to give Pitt a fighting chance of finding the wreck."

    "Bear with me, Admiral," said Yaeger patiently. "The next step was to conduct a search through historical archives for recorded tidal waves that struck the Pacific coastline of South America in the sixteenth century. Fortunately, the occasions were well documented by the Spanish during the conquest. I found four. Two in Chile in 1562 and 1575. Peru suffered them in 1570 and again in 1578, the year Drake captured the galleon."

    "Where did the latter strike?" Sandecker asked.

    "The only account comes from the log of a Spanish supply ship on its way to Callao. It passed over a `crazy sea' that swept inland toward Bahia de Caraquez in Ecuador. Bahia, of course, means bay."

    " `Crazy sea' is a good description of water turmoil above an earthquake on the seafloor. No doubt a seismic wave generated by a movement of the fault that parallels the west coast of the entire South American continent."

    "The captain also noted that on the return voyage, a village that sat at the mouth of a river running into the bay had vanished."

    "There is no question of the date?"

    "Right on the money. The tropical rain forest to the east appears to be impenetrable."

    "Okay, we have a ballpark. The next question is, what was the wave length?"

    "A tidal wave, or tsunami, can have a length of two hundred kilometers or more," said Yaeger.

    Sandecker considered this. "How wide is the Bay of Caraquez?"

    Yaeger called up a map on his monitor. "The entrance is narrow, no more than four or five kilometers."

    "And you say the captain of the supply ship logged a missing village by a river?"

    "Yes, sir, that was his description."

    "How does the contour of the bay today differ from that period?"

    "The outer bay has changed very little," answered Yaeger, after bringing up a program that depicted the old Spanish charts and the satellite map in different colors as he overlaid them on the screen. "The inner bay has moved about a kilometer toward the sea due to silt buildup from the Chone River."

    Sandecker stared at the screen for a long moment, then said slowly, "Can your electronic contraption do a simulation of the tidal wave sweeping the galleon onto shore?"

    Yaeger nodded. "Yes, but there are a number of factors to consider."

    "Such as?"

    "What was the height of the wave and how fast was it traveling."

    "It would have to be at least thirty meters high and traveling at better than a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour to carry a five-hundred-and-seventy-ton ship so far into the jungle that she has never been found."

    "Okay, let's see what I can do with digital imagery."

    Yaeger typed a series of commands on his keyboard and sat back, staring at the monitor for several seconds, examining the image he produced on the screen. Then he used a special function control to fine-tune the graphics until he could generate a realistic and dramatic simulation of a tidal wave crossing an imaginary shoreline. "There you have it," he announced. "Virtual reality configuration."

    "Now generate a ship," ordered Sandecker.

    Yaeger was not an expert on the construction of sixteenth-century galleons, but he produced a respectable image of one rolling slowly on the waves that was equal to a projector displaying moving graphics at sixty frames per second. The galleon appeared so realistic any unsuspecting soul who walked into the room would have thought they were watching a movie.

    "How does it look, Admiral?"

    "Hard to believe a machine can create something so lifelike," said Sandecker, visibly impressed.

    "You should see the latest computer-generated movies featuring the long-gone old stars with the new. I've watched the video of Arizona Sunset at least a dozen times."

    "Who plays the leads?"

    "Humphrey Bogart, Lionel Barrymore, Marilyn Monroe, Julia Roberts, and Tom Cruise. It's so real, you'd swear they all acted together on the set."

    Sandecker laid his hand on Yaeger's shoulder. "Let's see if you can make a reasonably accurate documentary."

    Yaeger did his magic on the computer, and the two men watched, fascinated, as the monitor displayed a sea so blue and distinct it was like looking through a window at the real thing. Then slowly, the water began convulsing into a wave that rolled away from the land, stranding the galleon on the seabed, as dry as if it were a toy boat on the blanket of a boy's bed. Then the computer visualized the wave rushing back toward shore, rising higher and higher, then cresting and engulfing the ship under a rolling mass of froth, sand, and water, hurling it toward land at an incredible speed, until finally the ship stopped and settled as the wave smoothed out and died.

    "Five kilometers," murmured Yaeger. "She looks to be approximately five kilometers from the coast."

    "No wonder she was lost and forgotten," said Sandecker. "I suggest you contact Pitt and make arrangements to fax your computer's grid coordinates."

    Yaeger gave Sandecker a queer look indeed. "Are you authorizing the search, Admiral?"

    Sandecker feigned a look of surprise as he rose and walked toward the door. Just before exiting, he turned and grinned impishly. "I can't very well authorize what could turn out to be a wild goose chase, now can I?"

    "You think that's what we're looking at, a wild goose chase?"

    Sandecker shrugged. "You've done your magic. If the ship truly rests in a jungle and not on the bottom of the sea, then the burden falls on Pitt and Giordino to go in that hell on earth and find her."

 

    Giordino contemplated the dried red stain on the stone floor of the temple. "No sign of Amaru in the rubble," he said with an utter lack of emotion.

    "I wonder how far he got?" Miles Rodgers asked no one in particular. He and Shannon had arrived from the sacred well an hour before noon on a helicopter piloted by Giordino.

    "His mercenary buddies must have carried him off," Pitt surmised.

    "Knowing a sadist like Amaru might still be alive," said Rodgers, "is enough to cause nightmares."

    Giordino gave a mechanical shrug. "Even if he survived the rocket attack, he'd have died from loss of blood."

    Pitt turned and stared at Shannon, who was directing a team of archaeologists and a small army of workers. They were numbering the shattered blocks of stone from the temple in preparation for a restoration project. She seemed to have discovered something in the debris and was bending down for a closer examination. "A man like Amaru doesn't die easily. I don't think we've heard the last of him."

    "A grim prospect," said Rodgers, "made worse by the latest news from Lima."

    Pitt raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know we received CNN this deep in the Andes."

    "We do now. The helicopter that landed about an hour ago belonged to the Peruvian News Bureau. It brought in a team of television reporters and a mountain of equipment. The City of the Dead has become international news."

    "So what did they have to report?" pressed Giordino.

    "The military and police have admitted their failure to capture the army renegade mercenaries who flew into the valley to slit our throats and remove the artifacts. Nor have investigators tracked down any of Amaru's grave looters."

    Pitt smiled at Rodgers. "Not exactly the sort of report that will look good on their resumes."

    "The government tried to save face by handing out a story that the thieves dumped the artifacts over the mountains and are now hiding out in the Amazon forests of Brazil."

    "Never happened," said Pitt. "Otherwise why would U.S. Customs insist we provide them with an inventory of the artifacts? They know better. No, the loot is not scattered on a mountaintop. If I read the brains behind the Solpemachaco correctly, they're not the kind to panic and run. Their informants in the military alerted them every step of the way, from the minute an assault force was assembled and launched to capture them. They would have also learned the flight plan of the assault transports, and then plotted a safe route to avoid them. After quickly loading the artifacts, they flew to a prearranged rendezvous at an airstrip or seaport where the stolen riches were either transferred aboard a jetliner or a cargo ship. I doubt whether Peru will ever see its historical treasures again."

    "A nice tight scenario," said Rodgers thoughtfully. "But aren't you forgetting the bad guys only had one helicopter after we stole their backup?"

    "And we knocked that one into a mountain," added Giordino.

    "I think if we knew the full truth, the gang of second-rate killers ordered in by the boss who impersonated Doc Miller was followed later by a couple of heavy-lift helicopter transports, probably the old model Boeing Chinooks that were sold around the world. They can lift almost fifty troops or twenty tons of cargo. Enough mercenaries were left on the ground to stow the artifacts. They made their getaway in plenty of time after our escape and before we alerted the Peruvian government, who took their time in mounting an aerial posse."

    Rodgers stared at Pitt with renewed admiration. Only Giordino was not impressed. He knew from long years of experience that Pitt was one of that rare breed who could stand back and analyze events as they occurred, down to the finest details. It was a gift with which few men and women are born. Just as the greatest mathematicians and physicists compute incredibly intricate formulas on a level incomprehensible to people with no head for figures, so Pitt operated on a deductive level incomprehensible to all but a few of the top criminal investigators in the world. Giordino often found it maddening that while he was attempting to explain something to Pitt, the mesmeric green eyes would focus on some unseen object in the distance and he would know that Pitt was concentrating on something.

    While Rodgers was pondering Pitt's reconstruction of events, trying to find a flaw, the big man from NUMA turned his attention to Shannon.

    She was on her hands and knees on the temple floor with a soft-bristled paintbrush, gently clearing away dust and tiny bits of rubble from a burial garment. The textile was woven from wool and adorned with multicolored embroidery in the design of a laughing monkey with hideous, grinning teeth and coiled snakes for arms and legs.

    "What the well-dressed Chachapoyan wore?" he asked.

    "No, it's Inca." Shannon did not turn and look up at him but remained absorbed in her work.

    "They did beautiful work," Pitt observed.

    "The Inca and their ancestors were the finest dyers and weavers in the world. Their fabric weaving techniques are too complicated and time-consuming to be copied today. They are still unrivaled in interlocking tapestry construction. The finest tapestry weavers of Renaissance Europe used eighty-five threads per inch. The early Peruvians used up to five hundred threads per inch. Small wonder the Spanish mistakenly thought the finer Inca textiles were silk."

    "Maybe this isn't a good time for pursuing the arts, but I thought you'd like to know that AI and I have finished sketching the artifacts we caught sight of before the roof fell in."

    "Give them to Dr. Ortiz. He's most interested in what was stolen."

    Then lost in her project, she turned back to the excavation.

 

    An hour later, Gunn found Pitt standing beside Ortiz, who was directing several workers in scraping vegetation from a large sculpture of what appeared to be a winged jaguar with a serpent's head. The menacing jaws were spread wide, revealing a set of frightening curved fangs. The massive body and wings were sculpted into the doorway of a huge burial house. The only entrance was the gaping mouth, which was large enough for a man to crawl into. From the feet to the tip of the raised wings, the stone beast stood over 6 meters high (20 feet).

    "Not something you'd want to meet some night in a dark alley," said Gunn.

    Dr. Ortiz turned and waved a greeting. "The largest Chachapoyan sculpture yet found. I judge it dates somewhere between A.D. 1200 and I300."

    "Does it have a name?" asked Pitt.

    "Demonio del Muertos," answered Ortiz. "The demon of the dead, a Chachapoyan god who was the focus of a protective rite connected with the cult of the underworld. Part jaguar, part condor, part snake, he sank his fangs into whoever disturbed the dead and then dragged them into the black depths of the earth."

    "He wasn't exactly pretty," said Gunn.

    "The demon wasn't meant to be. Effigies ranged in size from one like this to those no larger than a human hand, depending on the deceased's wealth and status. I imagine we'll find them in almost every tomb and grave in the valley."

    "Wasn't the god of the ancient Mexicans some kind of serpent?" asked Gunn.

    "Yes, Quetzalcoatl, a feathered serpent who was the most important deity of Mesoamerica, beginning with the Olmecs in 900 B. C. and ending with the Aztecs during the Spanish conquest. The Inca also had sculptures of serpents, but no direct connection has yet been made."

    Ortiz turned away as a laborer motioned for him to examine a small figurine he had excavated next to the sculpture. Gunn took Pitt by the arm and led him over to a low stone wall where they sat down.

    "A courier from the U.S. Embassy flew in from Lima on the last supply copter," he said, removing a folder from his briefcase, "and dropped off a packet that was faxed from Washington."

    "From Yaeger?" Pitt asked anxiously.

    "Both Yaeger and your friend Perlmutter."

    "Did they strike pay dirt?"

    "Read for yourself," said Gunn. "Julien Perlmutter found an account by a survivor of the galleon being swept into the jungle by a tidal wave."

    "So far so good."

    "It gets better. The account mentions a jade box containing knotted cords. Apparently the box still rests in the rotting timbers of the galleon."

    Pitt's eyes lit up like beacons. "The Drake quipu."

    "It appears the myth has substance," Gunn said with a broad smile.

    "And Yaeger?" Pitt asked as he began sifting through the papers.

    "His computer analyzed the existing data and came up with grid coordinates that put the galleon within a ten-square-kilometer ballpark."

    "Far smaller than I expected."

    "I'd say our prospects of finding the galleon and the jade box just improved by a good fifty percent."

    "Make that thirty percent," said Pitt, holding up a sheet from Perlmutter giving the known data on the construction, fittings, and cargo of the Nuestra Senora de la Concepcion. "Except for four anchors that were probably carried away during the impact of the tidal wave, the magnetic signature of any iron on board would be too faint to be detected by a magnetometer more than a stone's throw away."

    "An EG&G Geometrics G-8136 could pick up a small iron mass from a fair distance."

    "You're reading my thoughts. Frank Stewart has a unit on board the Deep Fathom."

    "We'll need a helicopter to tow the sensor over the top of the rain forest," said Gunn.

    "That's your department," Pitt said to him. "Who do you know in Ecuador?"

    Gunn thought a moment, and then his lips creased in a grin. "It just so happens the managing director of the Corporacion Estatal Petrolera Ecuatoriana, the state oil company, is indebted to NUMA for steering his company onto significant deposits of natural gas in the Gulf of Guayaquil."

    Then they owe us big, enough to lend us a bird."

    "You could safely say that, yes."

    "How much time will you need to put the bite on them?"

    Gunn held up his wrist and peered through his glasses at the dial of his trusty old Timex. "Give me twenty minutes to call and make a deal. Afterward, I'll inform Stewart that we'll drop in and pick up the magnetometer. Then I'll contact Yaeger and reconfirm his data."

    Pitt stared blankly at him. "Washington isn't exactly around the corner. Are you making conference calls with smoke signals or mirrors?"

    Gunn reached into his pocket and held up what looked like a small, portable telephone. "The Iridium, built by Motorola. Digital, wireless, you can call anywhere in the world with it."

    "I'm familiar with the system," Pitt acknowledged. "Works off a satellite enhancement network. Where did you steal a unit?"

    Gunn glanced furtively around the ruins. "Bite your tongue. This is merely a temporary appropriation from the Peruvian television crew."

    Pitt gazed fondly at his little bespectacled friend with deep admiration and wonder. It was a rare event when shy Gunn slipped out of his academic shell to perform a sneaky deed. "You're okay, Rudi, I don't care what the celebrity gossip columns say about you."

 

    In terms of artifacts and treasures, the looters had barely scratched the surface in the City of the Dead. They had concentrated on the royal tombs near the temple, but thanks to Pitt's intrusion, they did not have time to do extensive excavation on most of the surrounding tombs. Many of them contained the remains of high officials of the Chachapoya confederation. Ortiz and his team of archaeologists also found what appeared to be untouched burial houses of eight noblemen. Ortiz was overjoyed when he discovered the royal coffins were in pristine condition and had never been opened.

    "We will need ten years, maybe twenty, to conduct a full excavation of the valley," said Ortiz during the customary after-dinner conversation. "No discovery in the Americas can touch this one for the sheer number of antiquities. We have to go slow. Not even the seed of a flower or one bead of a necklace can be overlooked. We must miss nothing, because we have an unparalleled opportunity to gain a new understanding of the Chachapoyan culture."

    "You have your work cut out for you," said Pitt. "I only hope none of the Chachapoya treasures are stolen during shipment to your national museum."

    "Any loss between here and Lima is the least of my worries," replied Ortiz. "Almost as many artifacts are stolen from our museums as from the original tombs."

    "Don't you have tight security to protect your country's valuable objects?" asked Rodgers.

    "Of course, but professional art thieves are very shrewd. They often switch a genuine artifact with a skillfully done forgery. Months, sometimes years, can go by before the crime is discovered."

    "Only three weeks ago," said Shannon, "the National Heritage Museum in Guatemala reported the theft of pre-Columbian Mayan art objects with an estimated value of eight million dollars. The thieves were dressed as guards and carried off the treasures during viewing hours as if they were simply moving them from one wing to another. No one thought to question them."

    "My favorite," said Ortiz without smiling, "was the theft of forty-five twelfth-century Shang dynasty drinking vessels from a museum in Bejjing. The thieves carefully disassembled the glass cases and rearranged the remaining pieces to create the illusion that nothing was missing. Three months passed before the curator noticed the pieces were missing and realized they'd been stolen."

    Gunn held up his glasses and checked for smudges. "I had no idea art theft was such a widespread crime."

    Ortiz nodded. "In Peru, major art and antiquity collections are stolen as often as banks are robbed. What is even more tragic is that the thieves are getting bolder. They have no hesitation in kidnapping a collector for ransom. The ransom is, of course, his art objects. In many cases, they simply murder a collector before looting his house."

    "You were lucky only a fraction of the art treasures were plundered from the City of the Dead before the looters were stopped," said Pitt.

    "Lucky indeed. But tragically the choice items have already made their way out of the country."

    "A wonder the city wasn't discovered by the huaqueros long before now," said Shannon, deliberately avoiding any eye contact with Pitt.

    "Pueblo de los Muertos sits in this isolated valley ninety kilometers from the nearest village," replied Ortiz. "Traveling in here is a major ordeal, especially by foot. The native population had no reason to struggle seven or eight days through a jungle to search for something they thought existed only in legends from their dim past. When Hiram Bingham discovered Machu Picchu on a mountaintop the local inhabitants had never ventured there. And though it would not deter a hardened huaquero, descendants of the Chachapoya still believe that all ruins across the mountains in the great forests to the east are protected by a demon god like the one we found this afternoon. They're deathly afraid to go near them."

    Shannon nodded. "Many still swear that anyone who finds and enters the City of the Dead will be turned to stone."

    "Ah yes," Giordino murmured, "the old `cursed be you who disturb my bones' routine."

    "Since none of us feels any stiffening of the joints," said Ortiz jovially, "I must assume the evil spirits that frequent the ruins have lost their spell."

    "Too bad it didn't work against Amaru and his looters," said Pitt.

    Rodgers moved behind Shannon and placed a possessive hand on the nape of her neck. "I understand you're all bidding us good-bye in the morning."

    Shannon looked surprised and made no attempt to remove Rodgers's hand. "Is that true?" she said, looking at Pitt. "You're leaving?"

    Gunn answered before Pitt. "Yes, we're flying back to our ship before heading north into Ecuador."

    "You're not going to search in Equador for the galleon we discussed on the Deep Fathom?" Shannon asked.

    "Can you think of a better place?"

    "Why Ecuador?" she persisted.

    "Al enjoys the climate," Pitt said, clapping Giordino on the back.

    Giordino nodded. "I hear the girls are pretty and wild with lust."

    Shannon stared at Pitt with a look of interest. "And you?"

    "Me?" Pitt murmured innocently. "I'm going for the fishing."

 

    "You sure can pick 'em," said FBI Chief of Interstate Stolen Art Francis Ragsdale, as he eased into the vinyl seat of a booth in a nineteen-fifties-style chrome diner. He studied the selections on the coin-operated music unit that was wired to a Wurlitzer jukebox. "Stan Kenton, Charlie Barnett, Stan Getz. Who ever heard of these guys?"

    "Only people who appreciate good music," Gaskill replied sourly to the younger man. He settled his bulk, which filled two-thirds of the seat on his side of the booth.

    Ragsdale shrugged. "Before my time." To him, at thirty-four, the great musicians of an earlier era were only vague names mentioned occasionally by his parents. "Come here often?"

    Gaskill nodded. "The food really sticks to your ribs."

    "Hardly an epicurean recommendation." Clean-shaven, with black wavy hair and a reasonably well-exercised body, Ragsdale had the handsome face, pleasant gray eyes, and bland expression of a soap opera actor automatically reacting to his counterpart's dialogue. A good investigator, he took his job seriously, maintaining the image of the bureau by dressing in a dark business suit that gave him the appearance of a successful Wall Street broker. With a professional eye for detail, he examined the linoleum floor, the round stools at the counter, the period napkin holders and art deco salt and pepper shakers that were parked beside a bottle of Heinz ketchup and a jar of French's mustard. His expression reflected urbane distaste. He would unquestionably have preferred a more trendy restaurant in midtown Chicago.

    "Quaint place. Hermetically sealed within the Twilight Zone."

    "Atmosphere is half the enjoyment," said Gaskill resignedly.

    "Why is it when I pay, we eat in a class establishment, but when it's your turn we wind up in a geriatric beanery?"

    "It's knowing I always get a good table."

    "What about the food?"

    Gaskill smiled. "Best place I know to eat good chicken."

    Ragsdale gave him a look just shy of nausea and ignored the menu, mimeographed entrees between sheets of plastic. "I'll throw caution to the winds and risk botulism with a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee."

    "Congratulations on solving the Fairchild Museum theft in Scarsdale. I hear you recovered twenty missing Sung dynasty jade carvings."

    "Twenty-two. I've got to admit I passed over the least obvious suspect until I drew blanks on all the probables. The seventy-two-year-old director of security. Who would have figured him? He worked at the museum for close to thirty-two years. A record as clean as a surgeon's scrubbed hands. The curator refused to believe it until the old guy broke down and confessed. He had removed the carved figurines one at a time over a period of four years, returning after closing hours, shutting down the alarm system, picking the locks on the cases and lowering the carvings into the bushes beside the building from a bathroom window. He replaced the stolen carvings in the cases with less valuable pieces stored in a basement vault. The catalogue labels were also altered. He even managed to reset the raised stands in their exact positions without leaving telltale dust-free spots on the floor of the cases. Museum officials were more than impressed with his display technique."

    The waitress, the archetype of all those who wait on counters and tables in small-town cafes or truck stop restaurants, pencil in funny little cap, jaws furiously grinding gum, and surgical stockings hiding varicose veins, came over, pencil stub poised above a small green pad.

    "Dare I ask what your soup of the day is?" inquired Ragsdale loftily.

    "Curried lentil with ham and apple."

    Ragsdale did a double take. "Did I hear you correctly?"

    "Want me to repeat it?"

    "No, no, the curried lentil soup will be fine."

    The waitress wagged her pencil at Gaskill. "I know what you want." She yelled their orders to an unseen chef in the kitchen in a voice mixed with ground glass and river gravel.

    "After thirty-two years," asked Gaskill, continuing the conversation, "what triggered the museum's security chief to go on a burglary binge?"

    "A passion for exotic art," answered Ragsdale. "The old guy loved to touch and fondle the figurines when no one was around, but then a new curator made him take a cut in pay as an austerity measure just when he expected a raise. This made him mad and triggered his desire to possess the jade from the exhibits. It seemed from the first the theft could only have been pulled off by a first-rate team of professionals or someone from the inside. I narrowed it down to the senior security director and obtained a warrant to search his house. It was all there on his fireplace mantel, every missing piece, as if they were bowling trophies." '

    "Working on a new case?" asked Gaskill.

    "Just had one laid in my lap."

    "Another museum theft?"

    Ragsdale shook his head. "Private collection. The owner went to Europe for nine months. When he returned home, his walls were bare. Eight watercolors by Diego Rivera, the Mexican painter and muralist."

    "I've seen the murals he did for the Detroit Institute of Art."

    "Insurance company adjusters are foaming at the mouth. It seems the watercolors were insured for forty million dollars."

    "We may have to exchange notes on this one."

    Ragsdale looked at him. "You think Customs might be interested?"

    "A thin possibility we have a connecting case."

    "Always glad to have a helping hand."

    "I saw photos of what may be your Rivera watercolors in an old box of Stolen Art Bulletins my sister cleaned out of an old house she bought. I'll know when I compare them with your list. If there is a connection, four of your watercolors were reported missing from the University of Mexico in 1923. If they were smuggled into the United States, that makes it a Customs case."

    "That's ancient history."

    "Not for stolen art," Gaskill corrected him. "Eight months later, six Renoirs and four Gauguins vanished from the Louvre in Paris during an exhibition."

    "I gather you're alluding to that old master art thief, what was his name?"

    "The Specter," replied Gaskill.

    "Our illustrious predecessors in the Justice Department never caught him, did they?"

    "Never even made an I. D."

    "You think he had a hand in the original theft of the Riveras?"

    "Why not? The Specter was to art theft what Raffles was to diamond thefts. And just as melodramatic. He pulled off at least ten of the greatest art heists in history. A vain guy, he always left his trademark behind."

    "I seem to recall reading about a white glove," said Ragsdale.

    "That was Raffles. The Specter left a small calendar at the scene of his crimes, with the date of his next theft circled."

    "Give the man credit. He was a cocky bastard."

    A large, oval plate of what looked like chicken on a bed of rice arrived. Gaskill was also served an appetizing salad on the side. Ragsdale somberly examined the contents of his bowl and looked up at the waitress.

    "I don't suppose this greasy spoon serves anything but beer in cans."

    The grizzled waitress looked down at him and smiled like an old prostitute. "Honey, we got beer in bottles and we got wine. What'll it be?"

    "A bottle of your best burgundy."

    "I'll check with the wine steward." She winked through one heavily mascaraed eye before waddling back to the kitchen.

    "I forgot to mention the friendly service." Gaskill smiled.

    Ragsdale warily dipped a spoon into his soup, suspicion lining his face. He slowly sipped the contents of his spoon as if judging a wine tasting. Then he looked across the booth with widening eyes. "Good heavens. Sherry and pearl onions, garlic cloves, rosemary, and three different kinds of mushrooms. This is delicious." He peered at Gaskill's plate. "What did you order, chicken?"

    Gaskill tilted his plate so Ragsdale could see it. "You're close. The house specialty. Broiled marinated quail on a bed of bulgur with currants, scallions, puree of roasted carrots, and leeks with ginger."

    Ragsdale looked as if his wife had presented him with triplets. "You conned me."

    Gaskill appeared hurt. "I thought you wanted a good place to eat."

    "This is fantastic. But where are the crowds? They should be lined up outside."

    "The owner and chef, who by the way used to be at the Ritz in London, closes his kitchen on Mondays."

    "But why did he open just for us?" Ragsdale asked in awe.

    "I recovered his collection of medieval cooking utensils after they were stolen from his former house in England and smuggled into Miami."

    The waitress returned and thrust a bottle in front of Ragsdale's face so he could read the label. "Here you go, honey, Chateau Chantilly 1878. You got good taste, but are you man enough to pay eight thousand bucks for the bottle?"

    Ragsdale stared at the dusty bottle and faded label and went absolutely numb with surprise. "No, no, a good California cabernet will be fine," he choked out.

    "Tell you what, honey. How about a nice medium weight Bordeaux, a 1988 vintage. Say around thirty bucks."

    Ragsdale nodded in dumb assent. "I don't believe this."

    "I think what really appeals to me about the place," said Gaskill, pausing to savor a bit of quail, "is its incongruity. Who would ever expect to find gourmet food and wine like this in a diner?"

    "It's a world apart all right."

    "To get back to our conversation," said Gaskill, daintily removing a bone from the quail with his massive hands. "I almost laid my hands on another of the Specter's acquisitions."

    "Yes, I heard about your blown stakeout," Ragsdale muttered, having a difficult time bringing his mind back on track. "A Peruvian mummy covered in gold, wasn't it?"

    "The Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo."

    "Where did you go wrong?"

    "Bad timing more than anything. While we were keeping an eye on the owner's penthouse, a gang of thieves acting as furniture movers snatched the mummy from an apartment on a lower floor where it was hidden along with a huge cache of other art and artifacts, all with shady histories."

    "This soup is outstanding," Ragsdale said, trying to get the waitress's attention. "I'd better take another look at the menu and order an entree. Have you made up a catalogue yet?"

    "End of the week. I suspect there may be between thirty and forty items on your FBI wish list of stolen art in my suspect's underground collection."

    The waitress wandered over with the wine and Ragsdale ordered seared salmon with sweet corn, shiitake mushrooms, and spinach. "Good choice, honey," she drawled as she opened the bottle.

    Ragsdale shook his head in wonderment before turning his attention back to Gaskill. "What's the name of the collector who squirreled away the hot art?"

    "His name is Adolphus Rummel, a wealthy scrap dealer out of Chicago. His name ring a bell?"

    "No, but then I've never met a big-time underground buyer and collector who held open house. Any chance Rummel will talk?"

    "No way," said Gaskill regretfully. "He's already hired Jacob Morganthaler and is suing to get his confiscated art objects back."

    "Jury-rig Jake," Ragsdale said disgustedly. "Friend and champion of indicted black market art dealers and collectors."

    "With his acquittal record, we should consider ourselves lucky he doesn't defend murderers and drug dealers."

    "Any leads on who stole the golden body suit?"

    "None. A clean job. If I didn't know better, I'd say the Specter did it."

    Not unless he came back from the dead. He'd have to be well over ninety years old."

    Gaskill held up his glass, and Ragsdale poured the wine. "Suppose he had a son, or established a dynasty who carried on the family tradition?"

    "That's a thought. Except that no calendars with circled dates have been left at art robberies for over fifty years."

    "They could have branched out into smuggling and forgeries and dropped the cornball theatrics. Today's professionals know that modern investigative technology could easily comb enough evidence out of those hokey calendars to put a collar on them."

    "Maybe." Ragsdale paused as the waitress brought his salmon. He sniffed the aroma and gazed in delight at the presentation. "I hope it tastes as good as it looks."

    "Guaranteed, honey," the old waitress cackled, "or your money back."

    Ragsdale drained his wine and poured another glass. "I can hear your mind clicking from here. Where are you headed?"

    "Whoever committed the robbery didn't do it to gain a higher price from another black market collector," Gaskill replied. "I did some research on the golden body suit encasing the mummy. Reportedly, it was covered with engraved hieroglyphs, illustrating a long voyage by a fleet of Inca ships carrying a vast treasure, including a huge golden chain. I believe the thieves took it so they can trace a path to the mother lode."

    "Does the suit tell what happened to the treasure?"

    "Legend says it was buried on an island of an inland sea. How's your salmon?"

    "The best I've ever eaten," said Ragsdale happily. "And believe you me, that's a compliment. So where do you go from here?"

    "The engravings on the suit have to be translated. The Inca did not have a method of writing or illustrating events like the Mayans, but photographs of the suit taken before its earlier theft from Spain show definite indications of a pictorial graphic system. The thieves will need the services of an expert to decode these glyphs. Interpretation of ancient pictographs is not exactly an overcrowded field."

    "So you're going to chase down whoever gets the job?"

    "Hardly a major effort. There are only five leading specialists. Two of them are a husband and wife team by the name of Moore. They're considered the best in the field."

    "You've done your homework."

    Gaskill shrugged. "The greed of the thieves is the only lead I've got."

    "If you require the services of the bureau," Ragsdale said, "you have only to call me."

    "I appreciate that, Francis, thank you."

    "There's one other thing."

    "Yes?"

    "Can you introduce me to the chef? I'd like an inside track on a table for Saturday night."

 

    After a short layover at the Lima airport to pick up the EG&G magnetometer that was flown in from the Deep Fathom by a U.S. Embassy helicopter, Pitt, Giordino, and Gunn boarded a commercial flight to Quito, the capital of Ecuador. It was after two o'clock in the morning when they landed in the middle of a thunderstorm. As soon as they stepped through the gate they were met by a representative of the state oil company, who was acting on behalf of the managing director Gunn had negotiated with for a helicopter. He quickly herded them into a limousine that drove to the opposite side of the field, followed by a small van carrying their luggage and electronic equipment. The two-vehicle convoy stopped in front of a fully serviced McDonnell Douglas Explorer helicopter. As they exited the limo, Rudi Gunn turned to express his appreciation, but the oil company official had rolled up the window and ordered the driver to move on.

    "Makes one want to lead a clean life," Giordino muttered at the efficiency of it all.

    "They owed us bigger than I thought," said Pitt, ignoring the downpour and staring blissfully at the big, red, twin-engined helicopter with no tail rotor.

    "Is it a good aircraft?" asked Gunn naively.

    "Only the finest rotorcraft in the sky today," replied Pitt. "Stable, reliable, and smooth as oil on water. Costs about two point seven-five million. We couldn't have asked for a better machine to conduct a search and survey project from the air."

    "How far to the Bay of Caraquez?"

    "About two hundred and ten kilometers. We can make it in less than an hour with this machine."

    "I hope you don't plan to fly over strange terrain in the dark during a tropical storm," Gunn said uneasily, holding a newspaper over his head as a shield against the rain.

    Pitt shook his head. "No, we'll wait for first light."

    Giordino nodded toward the helicopter. "If I know only one thing, it's not to take a shower with my clothes on. I recommend we throw our baggage and electronic gear on board and get a few hours sleep before dawn."

    "That's the best idea I've heard all day," Pitt agreed heartily.

    Once their equipment was stowed, Giordino and Gunn reclined the backrests of two passenger seats and fell asleep within minutes. Pitt sat in the pilot's seat under a small lamp and studied the data accumulated by Perlmutter and Yaeger. He was too excited to be tired, certainly not on the eve of a shipwreck search. Most men turn from Jekyll to Hyde whenever the thought of a treasure hunt floods their brain. But Pitt's stimulant was not greed but the challenge of entering the unknown to pursue a trail laid down by adventurous men like him, who lived and died in another era, men who left a mystery for later generations to unravel.

    What kind of men walked the decks of sixteenth-century ships, he wondered. Besides the lure of adventure and the remote prospect of riches, what possessed them to sail on voyages sometimes lasting three or more years on ships not much larger than a modest suburban, two-story house? Out of sight of land for months at a time, their teeth falling out from the ravages of scurvy, the crews were decimated by malnutrition and disease. Many were the voyages completed by only ship's officers, who had survived on more abundant rations than the common seamen. Of the eighty-eight men on board the Golden Hind when Drake battled through the Strait of Magellan into the Pacific, only fifty-six were left when he entered Plymouth Harbor.

    Pitt turned his attention to the Nuestra Senora de la Concepcion. Perlmutter had included illustrations and cutaway plans of atypical Spanish treasure galleon that sailed the seas during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Pitt's primary interest was in the amount of iron that was on board for the magnetometer to detect. Perlmutter was certain the two cannon she reportedly carried were bronze and would not register on an instrument that measures the intensity of the magnetic field produced by an iron mass.

    The galleon carried four anchors. Their shanks, arms, and flukes were cast from iron, but their stocks were wood and they were secured to hemp lines, not chains. If she had been riding on two anchors, the force of the wave, suddenly striking the ship and hurling it ashore, would have probably snapped the lines. That left a small chance her two spare anchors might have survived intact and still be somewhere in the wreckage.

    He totaled up the rest of the iron that might have been on board. The fittings, ship's hardware, the big gudgeons and pintles that held the rudder and allowed it to turn. The trusses (iron brackets that helped support the yards or spars), any shackles or grappling irons. The cook's kettle, carpenter's tools, maybe a keg of nails, small firearms, swords, and pikes. Shot for the cannon.

    It was an exercise in the dark. Pitt was hardly an authority on sixteenth-century sailing ships. He could only rely on Perlmutter's best guess as to the total iron mass on board the Concepcion. The best estimate ran between one and three tons. Enough, Pitt fervently hoped, for the magnetometer to detect the galleon's anomaly from 50 to 75 meters in the air.

    Anything less, and they'd stand about as much chance of locating the galleon as they would of finding a floating bottle with a message in the middle of the South Pacific.

 

    It was about five in the morning, with a light blue sky turning orange over the mountains to the east, as Pitt swung the McDonnell Douglas Explorer helicopter over the waters of the Bay of Caraquez. Fishing boats were leaving the bay and heading out to sea for the day's catch. The crewmen paused as they readied their nets, looked up at the low-flying aircraft and waved. Pitt waved back as the shadow of the Explorer flickered over the little fishing fleet and darted toward the coastline. The dark, radiant blue of deep water soon altered to a turquoise green streaked by long lines of breaking surf that materialized as the seafloor rose to meet the sandy beach.

    The long arms of the bay circled and stopped short of each other at the entrance to the Chone River. Giordino, who was sitting in the copilot's seat, pointed down to the right at a small town with tiny streets and colorfully painted boats drawn up on the beach. The town was surrounded by numerous farms no larger than three or four acres, with little whitewashed adobe houses next to corrals holding goats and a few cows. Pitt followed the river upstream for two kilometers where it foamed white with rapids. Then suddenly the dense rain forest rose like an impenetrable wall and stretched eastward as far as they could see. Except for the river, no opening beneath the trees could be seen.

    "We're approaching the lower half of our grid," Pitt said over his shoulder to Gunn, who was hunched over the proton magnetometer.

    "Circle around for a couple of minutes while I set up the system," Gunn replied. "Al, can you drop the tow bird for me?"

    "As you wish." Giordino nodded, moving from his seat to the rear of the cabin.

    Pitt said, "I'll head toward the starting point for our first run and hang around until you're ready."

    Giordino lifted the sensor. It was shaped like an air-to-air missile. He lowered it through a floor hatch of the helicopter. Then he unreeled the sensor on its umbilical cable. "Tow bird out about thirty meters," he announced.

    "I'm picking up interference from the helicopter," said Gunn. "Give me another twenty meters."

    Giordino complied. "How's that?"

    "Good. Now hold on while I set the digital and analog recorders."

    "What about the camera and data acquisition systems?"

    "Them too."

    "No need to hurry," said Pitt. "I'm still programming my grid lane data into the satellite navigation computer."

    "First time with a Geometrics G-8136?" Giordino asked Gunn.

    Gunn nodded. "I've used the model G-801 for marine and ocean survey, but this is my introduction to the aerial unit."

    "Dirk and I used a G-8136 to locate a Chinese airliner that crashed off Japan last year. Worked like a woman of virtue-sensitive, reliable, never drifted, and required no calibration adjustments. Obviously, my ideal for a mate."

    Gunn looked at him strangely. "You have odd taste when it comes to women."

    "He has this thing for robots," Pitt joked.

    "Say no more," Giordino said pretentiously. "Say no more."

    "I'm told this model is good for accurate data on small anomalies," said Gunn, suddenly serious. "If she won't lead us to the Concepcion, nothing will."

    Giordino returned to the copilot's seat, settled in and stared down at the unbroken carpet of green no more than 200 meters (656 feet) below. There wasn't a piece of ground showing anywhere. "I don't think I'd like to spend my holidays here."

    "Not many people do," said Pitt. "According to Julien Perlmutter, a check of local historical archives came up with the rumor that the local farmers shun the area. Julien said Cuttill's journal mentioned that mummies of long dead Inca were torn from graveyards by the tidal wave before being swept into the jungle. The natives are highly superstitious, and they believe the spirits of their ancestors still drift through the jungle in search of their original graves."

    "You can run your first lane," declared Gunn. "All systems are up and tuned."

    "How far from the coast are we going to start mowing the lawn?" Giordino asked, referring to the seventy-five meter wide grid lanes they planned to cover.

    "We'll begin at the three-kilometer mark and run parallel to the shore," answered Pitt, "running lanes north and south as we work inland."

    "Length of lanes?" inquired Gunn, peering at the stylus marking the graph paper and the numbers blinking on his digital readout window.

    "Two kilometers at a speed of twenty knots."

    "We can run much faster," said Gunn. "The mag system has a very fast cycle rate. It can easily read an anomaly at a hundred knots."

    "We'll take it nice and slow," Pitt said firmly. "If we don't fly directly over the target, any magnetic field we hope to find won't make much of an impression on your gamma readings."

    "And if we don't pick up an anomaly, we increase the perimeters of the grid."

    "Right. We'll conduct a textbook search. We've done it more times than I care to count." Then Pitt glanced over at Giordino. "Al, you mind our altitude while I concentrate on our lane coordinates."

    Giordino nodded. "I'll keep the tow bird as low as I can without losing it in the branches of a tree."

    The sun was up now and the sky was clear of all but a few small, wispy clouds. Pitt took a final look at the instruments and then nodded. "Okay, guys, let's find ourselves a shipwreck."

 

    Back and forth over the thick jungle they flew, the air-conditioning system keeping the hot, humid atmosphere outside the aircraft's aluminum skin. The day wore on and by noon they had achieved nothing. The magnetometer failed to register so much as a tick. To someone who had never searched for an unseen object, it might have seemed discouraging, but Pitt, Giordino, and Gunn took it in stride. They had all known shipwreck or lost aircraft hunts that had lasted as long as six weeks without the slightest sign of success.

    Pitt was also a stickler for the game plan. He knew from experience that impatience and deviation from the computed search lanes usually spelled disaster for a project. Rather than begin in the middle of the grid and work out, he preferred to start at the outer edge and work in. Too often a target was discovered where it was not supposed to be. He also found it expedient to eliminate the open, dry areas so no time was wasted rerunning the search lanes.

    "How much have we covered?" asked Gunn for the first time since the search began.

    "Two kilometers into the grid," Pitt answered. "We're only now coming into Yaeger's prime target area."

    "Then we're about to run parallel lines five kilometers from the 1578 shoreline."

    "Yes, the distance the wave carried the galleon, as indicated by Yaeger's computer program."