Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

Billy was a small man of fifty-five. But a life spent ranching in the harsh climate of the Sonora Desert had made him as hard and tough as an old cast-iron frying pan. Perhaps his joints were not as flexible as they were the day he won a bronco riding contest in Tucson, nor did he move with the agility of the boy who was once the fastest cross-country runner in the tribe, nor did he have the stamina, but he was still as tough as an aging mountain goat.

The whites of his eyes were yellowed and the rims reddened from ignoring the onslaught of the desert sun all his life and never wearing sunglasses. He had a round brown face with a strong jaw, straggly gray eyebrows, and thick black hair-the kind of face that seemed expressionless but revealed deep character and an insight into nature rarely understood by anyone who was not a Native American.

A shadow and a cold breeze suddenly passed over him. He shuddered from the unexpected chill. Was it a spirit? Where did they come from, he wondered. Could it be his brother was trying to make him, fall to the rocks far below? Maybe the great stone beast knew he was approaching and was issuing a warning. Beset with foreboding, Billy kept on climbing, teeth clenched, staring only at the vertical rock before his eyes.

Fortunately, others who went before him had chiseled foot-and handholds on the steeper face of the wall near the summit. He could see they were very old by the rounded smoothness of their edges. Within 50 meters (164 feet) of his goal, he entered a rock chimney that had split away from the wall, leaving a trail of loose and shattered stone inside a wide crack that slanted a little more gently and made the climb a fraction less tiring.

At last, just as his muscles were tightening and he was losing all feeling in his legs, the rock wall gave way to an easy incline, and he crawled onto the open surface of the peak. He rose to his feet as the final light of day faded, breathing deeply, inhaling the cool, pure air of the desert He rubbed his hands on the legs of his pants to remove the dirt and grit and stared at the shadow of the demon looming in the growing darkness. Though it was carved from the rock of the mountain, Billy swore that it glowed. He was tired and sore, but strangely he felt no fear of the timeworn effigy, despite the tales about how the restless spirits who were denied entry into the afterworld walked the haunted mountain.

He saw no sign of fearsome creatures lurking in the dark. Except for the jaguar with the serpent's head, the mountain was empty. Billy spoke out.

"I have come."

There was no answer. The only sounds came from the wind and the beat from the wings of a hawk.

No eerie cries from the tormented souls of the underworld.

"I have climbed the enchanted mountain to pray to you," he said.

Still no sign or reply, but a chill went up his spine as he felt a presence. He heard voices speaking in a strange tongue. None of the words were familiar. Then he saw shadowy figures take shape.

The people were visible but transparent. They appeared to be moving about the mesa, taking no notice d Billy, walking around and through him as if it were he who did not exist. Their clothes were unfamiliar, not the brief cotton loincloths or rabbit-skin cloaks of his ancestors. These people were dressed as gods. Golden helmets adorned with brilliantly colored birds' feathers covered most of the phantoms' heads, while those who went bareheaded wore their hair in strange distinctive fashions. Their bodies were clothed with textiles Billy had never seen. The knotted mantles that draped over their shoulders and the tunics worn underneath were decorated with incredibly ornate and beautiful designs.

After a long minute the strange people seemed to dissolve and their voices ceased. Billy stood as still and silent as the rock beneath his feet. Who were these strange people who paraded before his eyes?

Was this an open door to the spirit world, he wondered.

He moved closer to the stone monster, reached out a trembling hand and touch

ed its flank. The ancient rock felt disturbingly hotter than it should have been from the day's heat. Then, incredibly, an eye seemed to pop open on the serpent's face, an eye with an unearthly light behind it.

Terror stirred through Billy's mind, but he was determined not to flinch. Later, he would be accused of an overactive imagination. But he swore a thousand times before his own death many years later that he had seen the demon stare at him from a sparkling eye. He summoned up his courage, dropped to his knees and spread out his hands. Then he began to pray. He prayed to the stone effigy through most of the night before falling into a trancelike sleep. Ìn the morning, as the sun rose and painted the clouds with a burst of gold, Billy Yuma awoke and looked around. He found himself lying across the front seat of his Ford pickup truck on the floor of the desert, far below the silent beast of the mountain that stared sightlessly across the dry waste.

Joseph Zolar stood at the head of the golden suit, watching Henry and Micki Moore huddle over the computer and laser printer. After four days of round-the-clock study, they had reduced the images from symbols to descriptive words and concise phrases.

There was a fascination about the way they snatched up the sheets as they rolled out onto the printer's tray, excitedly analyzing their conclusions as a wall clock ticked off the remaining minutes of their lives.

They went about their business as if the men behind the ski masks did not exist.

Henry labored in focused dedication. His world existed in just one narrow hall of academia. Like most university professors of anthropology and archaeology, he labored for prestige, because financial wealth eluded him. He had pieced together potsherds and had written a prodigious number of books that few read and even fewer paid good money to own. Published with small print runs, all his works ended up gathering dust in the basements of college libraries. Ironically, the fame and the honors that he foresaw would be heaped upon him as the interpreter, and perhaps discoverer, of Huascar's treasure meant more to him than mere monetary returns.

At first the Zolars found Micki Moore sexually appealing. But soon her indifference toward them became imitating. It was obvious that she loved her husband and had little interest in anyone else. They lived and worked together in a world of their own making.

Joseph Zolar would suffer little remorse over their termination. He had dealt with disgusting and despicable sellers and collectors over the years, and hardened criminals as well, but these two people were an enigma to him. He no longer cared what form of execution his brothers had in mind for them. All that mattered now was that the Moores come up with concise and accurate directions to Huascar's golden chain.

Wearing the ski masks had been a waste of time, but they kept them on during the entire time they were in the Moores' presence. It was obvious the Moores did not intimidate easily.

Zolar looked at Henry Moore and attempted a smile. It wasn't very successful. "Have you finished decoding the symbols?" he asked hopefully.

Moore winked foxlike at his wife and gave her a smug grin before turning to Zolar. "We are finished.

The story we have deciphered is one of great drama and human endurance. Our unraveling of the images and successful translation greatly expands the current knowledge of the Chachapoyas. And it will rewrite every text ever written on the Inca."

"So much for modesty," said Samson sarcastically.

"Do you know precisely where the treasure is buried?" Charles Oxley asked.

Henry Moore shrugged. "I can't say precisely."