Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

The man stood like a statue. He was shorter than Kurt but well built, with muscular forearms and bulbous shoulders. He had a different look from the Peruvians Kurt had known; broader and shorter, with a wider face; more indigenous, less European. His skin was a darker, copper shade and his eyes seemed larger.

He neither responded to the words nor reached for Kurt’s hand.

Kurt lowered his arm and glanced at Emma. “Maybe you’d better try.”

She repeated the greeting in Spanish. Adding something about them being interested in archaeology and the Chachapoya and mentioning that they’d seen Urco on the Internet.

This brought some chatter among the group, and the burly man nodded. “Me llamo Vargas,” he said, unfolding his arms and pointing to the cliff top. “Urco,” he said, before adding in English, “Up there.”

Vargas led them to the base of the cliff. Several ropes dangled down from above.

“I’m not great with heights,” Emma said. “Maybe I’ll just wait here.”

Looking at a climb of several hundred feet, Kurt wasn’t all that excited himself. “

I don’t suppose he could come down?”

Vargas just stared.

“Never mind.”

Kurt was given a safety harness and led to the nearest rope, where Vargas handed him a pair of well-used work gloves. They were loose and worn smooth—not exactly fit for gripping a nylon rope.

“To climb?” Kurt asked, making a hand-over-hand motion.

Vargas shook his head. “No . . . fly.”

He placed Kurt’s hands on the rope and then snapped the safety harness to a hook using a heavy carabiner.

Kurt saw instantly what was about to happen. He gripped the rope as Vargas released a cast-iron clamp attached to a second rope.

A heavy weight suspended up above began to fall and Kurt—whose rope was attached to that weight by means of a pulley—was lifted off the ground and hauled upward.

The initial launch was sudden, but after that the ride was smooth.

He passed small dwellings carved out of holes in the stone. Open rooms were empty except for ladders that went from one level to the next.

Above them, he passed a row of stone figures carved into the living rock; they looked almost bird-like, but with enlarged heads and human bodies and features. They reminded him of Egyptian hieroglyphs.

Higher up, in smaller niches and openings, he saw mummified bodies and weaponry; spears and morning stars. These were the mountaintop burial sites of the Chachapoya warriors.

He was approaching the block, tackle and pulley arrangement, which had allowed him to ascend so quickly, when Vargas applied the brake. He came to a stop ten feet from the crest of the mountain. A ladder affixed to the cliffside on his right led the rest of the way.

“You’ve made it this far,” a voice boomed from above. “Now comes the tricky part.”

Kurt looked up to see a face peering over the edge at him. It was weathered and creased from years in the sun, topped by shaggy dark hair and half covered by a gray beard as thick as wool on a sheep. Gleeful, dark eyes focused on Kurt. The man chuckled as he pointed to the ladder.

“I see it,” Kurt said.

“And you see the dilemma?”

Kurt saw that, too. The ladder was several feet beyond his reach. And even if he could stretch out to touch it, he would have to disconnect the safety harness from the rope in order to transfer to the bottom few rungs.

He looked down for a moment and then wished he hadn’t. “Now I know what the window washers on the Freedom Tower feel like.”

He swung his feet toward the ladder, pulled them back in the other direction and then swung them again. The rope began to move, sliding side to side with his motion. On the third arc, Kurt stretched out and grasped the metal frame of the ladder. Pulling himself over to it, he set his feet, wrapped one arm around the closest available rung and then disconnected the harness. Keeping his gaze skyward, he climbed to the top and pulled himself onto solid ground.

The man with the gray beard offered a slight bow. “I congratulate you. It takes most people several minutes before they figure out how to do that. And even then, many are reluctant to let go of the rope. Indeed, one reporter who came to interview me last year flat out refused. He just mumbled a few questions from the harness and then asked to be lowered to the ground as quickly as possible.”