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Pitt was fascinated by what O'Meara was telling him, but he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. "The obvious question is, where did Sigler stash the golden woman?"
"If I only knew," replied O'Meara.
"Didn't he give a clue?"
"The nurse thought he said the raft came apart and the statue dropped into the river a few hundred yards from where the surveyors' party found him. But don't get your hopes up. He was muttering nonsense. Treasure hunters have been dragging metal detectors up and down that river for years without a reading a tick."
Pitt swirled the ice cubes around inside his glass. He knew, he knew what happened to Ralph Morehouse Sigler and La Dorada.
"The American consul general," Pitt said slowly, "he was the last person to see Sigler alive?"
"The puzzle gets cloudy at this point, but as near as anyone can tell, the answer is yes."
"Let me see if I can fill in the pieces. This took place in January and February of 1918. Right?"
O'Meara nodded, and then he gave Pitt a queer stare.
"And the consul general's name was Alfred Gottschalk, who died a few weeks later on the Cyclops.
Right?"
"You know this?" said O'Meara, his eyes uncomprehending.
"Gottschalk probably heard of Sigler's mission through his counterpart at the British consulate. When he received the message from the railroad surveyors that Sigler was alive, he kept the news to himself and headed into the interior, hoping to interview the explorer and steal a jump on the British by turning over any valuable information to his own government. What he learned must have shattered any code of ethics he still retained. Gottschalk decided to grab the bonanza for himself.
"He found and raised the golden statue from the river and then transported it, along with Sigler, to Rio de Janeiro. He covered his tracks by buying off anyone who might talk about Sigler, and, if my guess is correct, killing off the men who helped him recover the statue. Then, using his influence with the Navy, he smuggled them both on board the Cyclops. The ship was lost and the secret died with her."
O'Meara's eyes deepened in curious interest. "Now that," he said, "you can't possibly know."
"Why else would LeBaron be looking for what he thought was La Dorada?"
"You make a good case," O'Meara admitted. "But you left the door open to a moot question. Why didn't Gottschalk simply kill Sigler after he found the statue? Why keep the Englishman alive?"
"Elementary. The consul general was consumed by gold fever. He wanted La Dorada and the emerald city too. Sigler was the only person alive who could give him directions or lead him there."
"I like the way you think, Dirk. Your wild-assed theory calls for another drink."
"Too late, the bar's closed. I think they'd like us to leave so the help can get home to bed."
O'Meara mimicked a crestfallen expression. "That's one nice thing about primitive living. No hours, no curfew." He took a final swallow from his glass. "Well, what are your plans?"
"Nothing complicated," said Pitt, smiling. "I'm going to find the Cyclops."
The President was an early riser, awakening at about 6 A.M. and exercising for thirty minutes before showering and eating a light breakfast. In a ritual going back to the days soon after his honeymoon, he gently eased out of bed and quietly dressed while his wife slept on. She was a night person and could not force herself to rise before 7:30.
He slipped on a sweatsuit and then removed a small leather briefcase from a closet in the adjoining sitting room. After giving his wife a tender kiss on the cheek, he took the back stairway down to the White House gym beneath the west terrace.
The spacious room, containing a variety of exercise equipment, was empty except for a thick-bodied man who lay on his back bench pressing a set of weights. With each lift he grunted like a woman in childbirth. The sweat beaded from a round head that sprouted a thick mat of ivory hair styled in a short crewcut. The stomach was immense and hairy, the arms and legs protruding like heavy tree limbs. He had the look of a carnival wrestler long past his prime.
"Good morning, Ira," said the President. "I'm glad you could make it."
The fat man set the weight bar on a pair of hooks above his head, rose from the bench, and squeezed the President's hand. "Good to see you, Vince."
The President smiled. No bowing, no scraping, no greeting of "Mr. President." Tough, stoical Ira Hagen, he mused. The gritty old undercover agent never gave an inch to anybody.
"I hope you don't mind meeting like this."
