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"It's them, there can be no others. Their faces are burned in my memory. They cost our family millions of dollars in artifacts that were later seized by Peruvian government archaeologists."
Moore was listening intently. "Why are they here?"
"The same purpose we are. Someone must have leaked information on our project." He turned and glared at Moore. "Perhaps the good professor has friends at NUMA?"
"My only connection with the government is on April fifteenth when I file my income tax return,"
Moore said testily. "Whoever they are, they're no friends of mine."
Oxley remained dubious. "Henry's right. Impossible for him to have made outside contact. Our security is too tight. Your assertion might make more sense to me if they were Customs officials, not scientists or engineers from an oceanographic research agency."
"No. I swear it's the same men who appeared out of nowhere and rescued the archaeologist and photographer from the sacred well. Their names are Dirk Pitt and Al Giordino. Pitt is the most dangerous of the two. He was the one who killed my men and emasculated Tupac Amaru. We must follow them and find out where they're operating from."
"I have only enough fuel to make it back to Guaymas," said Oxley. "We'll have to let them go."
"Force them down, force them to crash," Sarason demanded.
Oxley shook his head. "If they're as dangerous as you suggest, they may well be armed, and we're not.
Relax, brother, we'll meet up with them again."
"They're scavengers, using NUMA as a cover to beat us to the treasure."
"Think what you're saying," snapped Moore. "It is absolutely impossible for them to know where to search. My wife and I were the only ones ever to decode the images on the golden mummy suit. Either this has to be a coincidence or you're hallucinating."
"As my brother can tell you," said Sarason coldly, "I am not one to hallucinate."
"A couple of NUMA underwater freaks who roam the world fighting evil," muttered Moore sharply.
"You'd better lay off the mescal."
Sarason did not hear Moore. The thought of Amaru triggered something inside Sarason. He slowly regained control, the initial shock replaced by malevolence. He could not wait to unleash the mad dog from the Andes.
"This time," he murmured nastily, "they will be the ones who pay."
Joseph Zolar had finally arrived in his jet and was waiting in the dining room of the hacienda with Micki Moore when the searchers entered wearily and sat down. "I guess I don't have to ask if you've found anything. The look on your faces reflects defeat."
"We'll find it," said Oxley through a yawn. "The demon has to be out there somewhere."
"I'm not as confident," muttered Moore, reaching for a glass of chilled chardonnay. "We've almost run out of islands to search."
Sarason came over and gave Zolar a brotherly pat on both shoulders. "We expected you three days ago."
"I was delayed. A transaction that netted us one million two hundred thousand Swiss francs."
"A dealer?"
"A collector. A Saudi sheik."
"How did the Vincente deal go?"
"Sold him the entire lot, with the exception of those damned Indian ceremonial idols. For some inexplicable reason, they scared the hell out of him."
Samson laughed. "Maybe it's the curse."
Zolar shrugged impassively. "If they come with a curse, it simply means the next potential buyer will have to pay a premium."
"Did you bring the idols with you?" asked Oxley. "I'd like to have a look at them."
