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"If Mexican archaeologists had taken a massive rock carving and set it up for exhibit," said Moore doggedly, "I'd have known about it."
"Then how do you explain that it is not where it is supposed to be?"
"I can't," Moore admitted. "As soon as we land back at the hacienda, I'll review my notes. There must be a seemingly insignificant clue that I missed in my translation of the golden suit."
"I trust you will find it before tomorrow morning," Sarason said dryly.
Oxley fought the urge to doze off. He had been at the controls since nine o'clock in the morning and his neck was stiff with weariness. He held the control column between his knees and poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos. He took a swallow and made a face. It was not only cold but tasted as strong as battery acid. Suddenly, his eye caught a flash of green from under a cloud. He pointed out the window to the right of the Baffin flying boat.
"Don't see many helicopters in this part of the Gulf," he said casually.
Sarason didn't bother to look. "Must be a Mexican navy patrol plane."
"No doubt looking for a drunken fisherman with a broken engine," added Moore.
Oxley shook his head. "I can't ever recall seeing a turquoise military aircraft."
Sarason looked up, startled. "Turquoise? Can you make out its markings?"
Oxley lifted the binoculars and peered through the windscreen. "American."
"A Drug Enforcement Agency patrol working with Mexican authorities, probably."
"No, it belongs to National Underwater and Marine Agency. I wonder what they're doing in the Gulf?"
"They conduct ocean surveys all over the world," said Moore unconcernedly.
Sarason stiffened as though he'd been shot. "Two scum from NUMA wrecked our operation in Peru."
"Hardly seems likely there's a connection," said Oxley.
"What operation did NUMA wreck in Peru?" asked Moore, sniffing the air.
"They stepped outside their jurisdiction," answered Sarason vaguely.
"I'd like to hear about it sometime."
"Not a subject that concerns you," Sarason said, brushing him off. "How many people in the craft?"
"Looks like a model that seats four," replied Oxley, "but I only see a pilot and one passenger."
"Are they approaching or headed away?"
"The pilot has turned onto a converging course that will cross about two hundred meters above us."
"Can you ascend and turn with him?" asked Sarason. "I want a closer look."
"Since aviation authorities can't take away a license I never applied for--" Oxley smiled-- "I'll put you in the pilot's lap."
"Is that safe?" Moore asked.
Oxley grinned. "Depends on the other pilot."
Sarason took the binoculars and peered at the turquoise helicopter. This was a different model from the one that had landed at the sacrificial well. That one had a shorter fuselage and landing skids. This one had retractable landing gear. But there was no mistaking the color scheme and markings. He told himself it was ridiculous to think the men in the approaching helicopter could possibly be the same ones who appeared out of nowhere in the Andes.
He trained the binoculars on the helicopter's cockpit. In another few seconds he would be able to discern the faces inside. For some strange, inexplicable reason his calm began to crack and he felt his nerves tighten.
"What do you think?" asked Giordino. "Could they be the ones?"
