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"And once a portion of the treasure is in your hands?" asked Gunn. "What then?"
Micki smiled like a wily shrew. "I'll send you a postcard from whatever part of the world we're in at the time and let you know how we're spending it."
A small army of soldiers set up a command post and sealed off the desert for two miles around the base of Cerro el Capirote. No one was allowed in or out. The mountain's peak had become a staging area with all treasure recovery operations conducted from the air. Pitt's stolen NUMA helicopter, repainted with Zolar International colors, lifted into a clear sky and dipped on a course back to the hacienda. A few minutes later, a heavy Mexican army transport helicopter hovered and settled down. A detachment of military engineers in desert combat fatigues jumped to the ground, opened the rear cargo door and began unloading a small forklift, coils of cable, and a large winch.
Officials of the state of Sonora who were on the Zolars' payroll had approved all the necessary licenses and permits within twenty-four hours, a process that would normally have taken months and perhaps years. The Zolars had promised to fund new schools, roads, and a hospital. Their cash had greased the palms of the local bureaucracy and eliminated the usual rivers of red tape. Full cooperation was given by an unwitting Mexican government misled by corrupt bureaucrats. Joseph Zolar's request for a contingent of engineers from a military base on the Baja Peninsula was quickly approved. Under the terms of a swiftly drawn up contract with the Ministry of the Treasury, the Zolars were entitled to 25
percent of the treasure. The rest was to be deposited with the national court in Mexico City.
The only problem with the agreement was that the Zolars had no intention of keeping their end of the bargain. They weren't about to split the treasure with anyone.
Once the golden chain and the bulk of the treasure had been hauled to the top of the mountain, a covert operation was created to move the hoard under cover of darkness to a remote military airstrip near the great sand dunes of the Altar Desert just south of the Arizona border. There, it would be loaded aboard a commercial jet transport, painted with the markings and colors of a major airline company, and then flown to a secret distribution facility owned by the Zolars in the small city of Nador on the north coast of Morocco.
Everyone had been ferried from the hacienda to the mountaintop as soon as it became daylight. No personal effects were left behind. Only Zolar's jetliner remained, parked on the hacienda's airstrip, ready for takeoff on a moment's notice.
Loren and Rudi were released from their prison and sent over later the same morning. Ignoring Sarason's orders not to communicate with the hostages, Micki Moore had compassionately tended to their cuts and bruises and made sure they were fed a decent meal. Since there was little chance they could escape by climbing down the rocky walls of the mountain, no one guarded them and they were left on their own to wander about as they pleased.
Oxley quickly discovered the small aperture leading inside the mountain and wasted no time in directing a military work crew to enlarge it. He stayed behind to oversee the equipment staging while Zolar, Sarason, and the Moores set off down the passageway followed by a squad of engineers, who carried portable fluorescent lights.
When they reached the second demon, Micki lovingly touched its eyes, just as Shannon Kelsey had done before her. She sighed. "A marvelous piece of work."
"Beautifully preserved," Henry Moore agreed.
"It will have to be destroyed," said Sarason indifferently.
"What are you talking about?" demanded Moore.
"We can't move it. The ugly beast fills up most of the tunnel. There is no way we can drag Huascar's chain over, around, or between its legs."
Micki's face went tense with shock. "You can't destroy a masterwork of antiquity."
"We can and we will," Zolar said, backing his brother. "I agree it's unfortunate. But we don't have time for archaeological zealotry. The sculpture has to go."
Moore's pained expression slowly turned hard, and he looked at his wife and nodded. "Sacrifices must be made."
Micki understood. If they were to seize enough of the golden riches to keep them in luxury for the rest of their lives, they would have to close their eyes to the demolition of the demon.
They pushed on as Sarason lagged behind and ordered the engineers to place a charge of explosives under the demon. "Be careful," he warned them in Spanish. "Use a small charge. We don't want to cause a cave-in."
Zolar was amazed at the Moores' vast energy and enthusiasm after they encountered the crypt of the treasure guardians. If left on their own, they would have spent a week studying the mummies and the burial ornaments before pushing on to the treasure chamber.
"Let's keep going," said Zolar impatiently. "You can nose around the dead later."
Reluctantly, the Moores continued into the guardians' living quarters, lingering only a few minutes before Sarason rejoined his brother and urged them onward.
The sudden sight of the guardian encased in calcite crystals shocked and stunned all of them, as it had Pitt and his group. Henry Moore peered intently through the translucent sarcophagus.
"An ancient Chachapoya," he murmured as if standing before a crucifix. "Preserved as he died. This is an unbelievable discovery."
"He must have been a noble warrior of very high status," said Micki in awe.
"A logical conclusion, my dear. This man had to be very powerful to bear the responsibility of guarding an immense royal treasure."
"What do you think he's worth?" asked Sarason.
Moore turned and scowled at him. "You can't set a price on such an extraordinary object. As a window to the past, he is priceless."
"I know a collector who would give five million dollars for him," said Zolar, as if he were appraising a Ming vase.
