Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

Moore sank back in his seat and said nothing.

"I'll land and taxi to that little beach," said Oxley. "From the air, at least, it looks like a relatively easy climb to the summit."

Sarason nodded. "Take her down."

Oxley made two passes over the water off the island's beach, making certain there were no underwater reefs or rocks that could tear out the bottom of the aircraft. He came into the wind and settled the plane on the blue sea, striking the light swells and riding them like a speedboat across a choppy lake. The propellers flashed in the sun as they whipped sheets of spray over the wing.

The plane quickly slowed from the drag of the water as Oxley eased back on the throttles, keeping just enough power to move the plane toward the beach. Forty-six meters (151 feet) from shore, he extended the wheels into the water. The tires soon touched and gripped the sandy shelf that sloped toward the island. Two minutes later the plane rose from a low surf and rolled onto the beach like a dripping duck.

Two fishermen wandered over from a small driftwood shack and gawked at the aircraft as Oxley turned off the ignition switches and the propellers swung to a stop. The passenger door opened and Sarason stepped down to the white sand beach, followed by Moore and finally Oxley, who locked and secured the door and cargo hatch. As an added security measure, Samson generously paid the fishermen to guard the plane. Then they set off on a scarcely defined footpath leading to the top of the island.

At first the trail was an easy hike but then it angled more steeply the closer they came to the summit.

Gulls soared over them, squawking and staring down at the sweating humans through indifferent beady eyes. Their flight was majestic as they steered by the feathers in their tails, wings outstretched and motionless to catch the warm updrafts. One particularly curious bird swooped over Moore and splattered his shoulder.

The anthropologist, appearing to suffer from the effects of alcohol and exertion, stared dumbly at his stained shirt, too tired to curse. Samson, a wide grin on his face, saluted the gull and climbed over a large rock blocking the trail. Then the blue sea came into view and he looked across the channel to the white sand beach of Playa el Coyote and the Sierra el Cardonal mountains beyond.

Moore had stopped, gasping for air, sweat flowing freely. He looked on the verge of collapse when Oxley grabbed his hand and heaved him onto the flat top of the summit.

"Didn't anybody ever tell you booze and rock climbing don't mix?"

Moore ignored him. Then suddenly, the exhaustion washed away and he stiffened. His eyes squinted in drunken concentration. He brushed Oxley aside and stumbled toward a rock the size of a small automobile that was crudely carved in the shape of some animal. Like a drunk who had witnessed a vision, he staggered around the rock sculpture, his hands fluttering over the rough, uneven surface.

"A dog," he gasped between labored breaths, "it's only a stupid dog."

"Wrong," said Samson. "A coyote. The namesake of the bay. Superstitious fishermen carved it as a symbol to protect their crews and boats when they go to sea."

"Why should an old rock carving interest you?" asked Oxley.

"As an anthropologist, primitive sculptures can be a great source of knowledge."

Samson was watching Moore, and for once his eyes were no longer filled with distaste. There was no question in his mind that the drunken professor had given away the key to the treasure's location.

He could kill Moore now, Samson thought icily. Throw the little man over the edge of the island's west palisade into the surf that crashed on the rocks far below. And who would care? The body would probably drift out with the tide and become shark food. Any investigation by local Mexican authorities was doubtful.

"You realize, of course, that we no longer require your services, don't you, Henry?" It was the first time Sarason had uttered Moore's given name, and there was an

unpleasant familiarity about it.

Moore shook his head and spoke with an icy composure that seemed unnatural under the circumstances. "You'll never do it without me."

"A pathetic bluff," Samson sneered. "Now that we know we're searching for an island with a sculpture, an ancient one I presume, what more can you possibly contribute to the search?"

Moore's drunkenness had seemingly melted away, and he abruptly appeared as sober as a judge. "A rock sculpture is only the first of several benchmarks the Incas erected. They all have to be interpreted."

Samson smiled. It was a cold and evil smile. "You wouldn't lie to me now, would you, Henry? You wouldn't deceive my brother and me into thinking Isla Bargo isn't the treasure site so you can return later on your own and dig it up? I sincerely hope that little plot isn't running through your mind."

Moore glared at him, simple dislike showing where there should have been fear. "Blow off the top of the island," he said with a shrug, "and see what it gets you. Level it to the waterline. You won't find an ounce of Huascar's treasure, not in a thousand years. Not without someone who knows the secrets of the markers."

"He may be right," Oxley said quietly. "And if he's lying, we can return and excavate on our own.

Either way, we win."

Sarason smiled bleakly. He could read Henry Moore's thoughts. The anthropologist was playing for time, waiting and scheming to use the ultimate end of the search to somehow claim the riches for himself.

But Samson was a schemer too and he had considered every option. At the moment he could see no avenue open for Moore to make a miraculous escape with tons of gold. Certainly not unless Moore had a plan that he had not yet fathomed.

Leniency and patience, they were the watchwords for now, Samson decided. He patted Moore on the back. "Forgive my frustration. Let's get back to the plane and call it a day. I think we could all use a cool bath, a tall margarita, and a good supper."