Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

The man allowed himself a belly laugh.

Kurt chuckled and turned to take in the view. They were standing on a platform in the sky, the highest spot for miles around. A major valley loomed to the east and north while the teeth of lower ridges loomed to the west. “That reporter missed out,” he said. “Reminds me of a spot called Eagle’s Nest in Colorado.”

“There was a time when eagles made their homes on this aerie,” the man said. “Long ago.”

Kurt noticed that the man spoke English far better than Vargas had. “Since you’re the only one up here, I’ll assume you’re Urco.” He offered a hand. “Kurt Austin.”

The man looked at Kurt’s outstretched palm and offered an uncomfortable grin. “I am Urco,” he said without moving. “Pleased to meet you.”

For the second time, Kurt pulled his arm back. “Not too fond of shaking hands around here, are you? Is it some custom I’m unaware of?”

Urco shook his head. “I’m afraid we are . . . germaphobes . . . of a sort.”

“Really?” Kurt said. “You live out in the wild, dig around in the dirt, unearthing dead bodies, and you’re afraid of germs?”

“I know it sounds strange,” Urco replied, “but, in a way, it’s the bodies that remind us to be wary. These dwellings and burial chambers are from the last stronghold of the Chachapoya people. They held out against the might of the Inca for centuries. They even resisted the conquistadors after Pizarro and his one hundred and sixty-eight men defeated Atahualpa and his six thousand Inca warriors. Unfortunately, their next enemy was one they could not defeat.”

“Disease?” Kurt said.

Urco nodded. “Smallpox. It ravaged the settlements, killing nearly everyone it found. Those who stayed died. Those who fled brought the disease with them, spreading the plague to other villages. I’ve found writings that describe a traveler coming home to a village of two thousand people to find no one alive. Most had died horribly, covered with pustules. Others had killed each other when fighting and chaos set in—as they always do when social order breaks down.”

Urco waved his arms about in a sweeping gesture. “This place was a nation once. And then it was gone.”

Kurt nodded. He knew the grim statistics. European diseases had hit the New World hard. South America fared the worst. According to many experts, smallpox, influenza and measles wiped out ninety-five percent of the indigenous population.

Urco continued. “The men and women who work on this project are all descendants of the Chachapoya. Some nearly pure-blooded. Others, like myself, have a mix of European and indigenous genes. Of course, we’re not really afraid of disease anymore, but avoiding the touch of outsiders is one way we remind ourselves what happened to our ancestors.”

“I assure you,” Kurt said. “I’ve had all my proper shots and inoculations.”

Urco stared at him for a second and then began to laugh. He waved Kurt over and sat down, leaning against a slight rise in the ridge that acted like a natural chair even if it was made of stone. Beside him was a laptop computer. A wire from the computer led to an exterior antenna propped up and pointed at an almost flat angle to the northwest.

Kurt recognized the antenna as a type used to communicate via satellite. “Checking your e-mail?”

“Yes, actually,” Urco said. “The satellite we use is very low on the horizon this time of year. You can’t get a signal from the valley floor. So I come up here every day. Sometimes twice a day. I tell the workers I’m conversing with the gods. They remind me to check my battery level or the gods will never hear me.”

“I’m very impressed with the dig,” Kurt said. “I assume all the ropes are to keep you from damaging the excavation sites.”

“Partly,” Urco said. “The Peruvian government owns the site and they won’t permit us to set foot in the burial areas—something I agree with. As a result, we have to learn what we can by looking in from the outside. That means being suspended midair like an acrobat. I must admit, it sometimes makes things tricky, especially if the wind gets up, which it often does. But after a while, it becomes second nature.”

Kurt studied the setup. Three high summits around the valley acted like the points of a jagged crown. The face of each peak was adorned with a rope and pulley system like the one that had lifted Kurt. The scaffolding ropes were offset from these, and the third set of taut cables stretched from one peak to the next. Highest to middle. Middle to lowest. And from there, back down to the camp below.

The heavy ropes reminded Kurt of the recreational zip line operations marketed to tourists all over the world.

“Your people

use these lines to get from peak to peak,” Kurt said.

“Precisely,” Urco said. “They allow quick access from one crest to the next without having to go all the way down and back up again. I make the circuit at least twice a day myself, inspecting the work. It’s a one-way journey, of course—since those crests are lower than this one. But it’s quite exhilarating.”

“I can imagine,” Kurt said. “I’d like to try it.”

“You’re more than welcome to,” Urco said. “But something tells me you didn’t come all this way to talk about ropes and zip lines.”

“No,” Kurt admitted. “I’m looking for some information. But I’m not a reporter. I work for the American government, for an agency called NUMA.”

“Ah, yes,” Urco replied. “I know of this organization.”

“You do?”