Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

"Either way, you'd lose."

Giordino turned and looked at him. "Care to let your old buddy in on the rationale?"

"If we hit the jackpot ahead of them, we're supposed to fade into the landscape and let them scoop up the loot."

"Give it up?" Giordino was incredulous.

"Those are the orders," said Pitt, resentment written in his eyes.

"But why?" demanded Giordino. "What great wisdom does our benevolent government see in making criminals rich?"

"So Customs and the FBI can trail and trap them into an indictment and eventual conviction for some pretty heavy crimes."

"I can't say this sort of justice appeals to me. Will the taxpayers be notified of the windfall?"

"Probably not, any more than they were told about the Spanish gold the army removed from Victorio Peak in New Mexico after it was discovered by a group of civilians in the nineteen thirties."

"We live in a sordid, unrelenting world," Giordino observed poetically.

Pitt motioned toward the rising sun. "Come around on an approximate heading of one-one-o degrees."

Giordino took note of the eastern heading. "You want to check out the other side of the Gulf on the first run?"

"Only four islands have the geological features similar to what we're looking for. But you know I like launching the search on the outer perimeters of our grid and then working back toward the more promising targets."

Giordino grinned. "Any sane man would begin in the center."

"Didn't you know?" Pitt came back. "The village idiot has all the fun."

It had been a long four days of searching. Oxley was discouraged, Sarason oddly complacent, while Moore was baffled. They had flown over every island in the Sea of Cortez that had the correct geological formations. Several

displayed features on their peaks that suggested man-made rock carvings. But low altitude reconnaissance and strenuous climbs up steep palisades to verify the rock structures up close revealed configurations that appeared as sculpted beasts only in their imaginations.

Moore was no longer the arrogant academic. He was plainly baffled. The rock carving had to exist on an island in an inland sea. The pictographs on the golden mummy suit were distinct, and there was no mistaking the directions in his translation. For a man so cocksure of himself, the failure was maddening.

Moore was also puzzled by Sarason's sudden change in attitude. The bastard, Moore mused, no longer displayed animosity or anger. Those strange almost colorless eyes always seemed to be in a constant state of observation, never losing their intensity. Moore knew whenever he gazed into them that he was facing a man who was no stranger to death.

Moore was becoming increasingly uneasy. The balance of power had shifted. His edge was dulled now he was certain that Sarason saw beyond his credentials as an insolent schoolteacher. If he had recognized the killer instinct in Sarason, it stood to reason Sarason had identified it in him too.

But there was a small measure of satisfaction. Sarason was not clairvoyant. He could not have known, nor did any man alive know except the President of the United States, that Professor Henry Moore, respected anthropologist, and his equally respected archaeologist wife, Micki were experts in carrying out assassinations of foreign terrorist leaders. With their academic credentials they easily traveled in and out of foreign countries as consultants on archaeological projects. Interestingly, the CIA was in total ignorance of their actions. Their assignments came directly from an obscure agency calling itself the Foreign Activities Council that operated out of a small basement room under the White House.

Moore shifted restlessly in his seat and studied a chart of the Gulf. Finally he said, "Something is very, very wrong."

Oxley looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. I prefer to land in daylight. We might as well call it a day."

Sarason's expressionless gaze rested on the empty horizon ahead. Untypically, he acted relaxed and quiet. He offered no comment.

"It's got to be here, "Moore said, examining the islands he had crossed out on his chart as if he had flunked a test.

"I have an unpleasant feeling we might have flown right by it," said Oxley.

Now that he saw Moore in a different light, Sarason viewed him with the respect one adversary has for another. He also realized that despite his slim frame, the professor was strong and quick. Struggling up the rocky walls of promising islands, gasping from aggravated exhaustion and playing drunk, was nothing more than an act. On two occasions, Moore leaped over a fissure with the agility of a mountain goat. On another, with seemingly little effort, he cast aside a boulder blocking his path that easily equaled his weight.

Sarason said, "Perhaps the Inca sculpture we're looking for was destroyed."

In the rear seat of the seaplane Moore shook his head. "No, I'd have recognized the pieces."

"Suppose it was moved? It wouldn't be the first time an ancient sculpture was relocated to a museum for display."