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Sarason's mouth was pinched in a bitter line. "Pitt admitted leading us to the demon," he answered reluctantly, "but he said nothing of entering the mountain and laying eyes on the treasure."
/> "Generous with his information, wasn't he? Why didn't you tell me this?"
Sarason shrugged. "He's dead. I didn't think it mattered."
Micki turned to her husband. "I know Dr. Kelsey. I met her at an archaeology conference in San Antonio. She has a splendid reputation as an expert on Andean cultures."
Moore nodded. "Yes, I'm familiar with her work." He stared at Sarason. "You led us to believe Congresswoman Smith and the men from NUMA were merely on a treasure hunt. You said nothing of involvement by professional archaeologists."
"Does it make any difference?"
"Something is going on beyond your control," warned Moore. He looked as if he was enjoying the Zolars' confusion. "If I were you, I'd get the gold out of here as fast as possible."
His words were punctuated by a muffled explosion far up into the passageway.
"We have nothing to fear so long as Pitt is dead," Sarason kept insisting. "What you see here was done before Amaru put a stop to him." But he was damp with cold sweat. Pitt's mocking words rang in his ears, "You've been set up, pal."
Zolar's features slowly altered. The mouth tightened and the set of the jaw seemed to recede, the eyes became apprehensive. "Nobody discovers a treasure on the magnitude of this one, leaves behind a ridiculous message, and then walks away from it. These people have a method to their madness, and I for one would like to know their plan."
"Any man who stands in our way before the treasure is safely off the mountain will be destroyed,"
Sarason shouted at his brother. "That is a promise."
The words came forcefully, with the ring of a bullet resistant threat. They all believed him. Except Micki Moore.
She was the only one standing close enough to see his lips quiver.
Bureaucrats from around the world looked the same, Pitt thought. The fabricated meaningless smile betrayed by the patronizing look in the eyes. They must have all gone to the same school and memorized the same canned speech of evasive phrases. This one was bald, wore thick hornrimmed glasses, and had a black moustache with each bristle exactingly trimmed.
A tall, complacent man, whose profile and haughtiness reminded the Americans seated around the conference room of a Spanish conquistador, Fernando Matos was the very essence of a condescending, fence-and-dodge bureaucrat. He stared at the Americans in the Customs building less than 100 meters (328 feet) from the international border.
Admiral James Sandecker, who had arrived from Washington shortly after Gaskill and Ragsdale flew in from Galveston, stared back and said nothing. Shannon, Rodgers, and Giordino were relegated to chairs against one wall while Pitt sat at Sandecker's right. They left the talking to the chief Customs agent of the region, Curtis Starger.
A veteran of sixteen years with the service, Starger had been around the Horn enough times to have seen it all. He was a trim, handsome man with sharp features and blond hair. He looked more like an aging lifeguard on a San Diego beach than a hardened agent who gazed at Matos with an expression that could scorch asbestos. After the introductions were made, he launched his attack.
"I'll skip the niceties, Mr. Matos. On matters such as this I'm used to dealing with your elite law enforcement agents, especially Inspector Granados and the chief of your Northern Mexico Investigative Division, Sefior Rojas. I wish you would explain, sir, why a midlevel official from an obscure office of the National Affairs Department was sent to brief us on the situation. I get the feeling that your national government in Mexico City is as much in the dark as we are."
Matos made a helpless gesture with his hands. His eyes never blinked, and his smile remained fixed. If he felt insulted, it didn't show. "Inspector Granados is working on a case in Hermosillo and Sefior Rojas was taken ill."
"Sorry to hear it," Starger grunted insincerely.
"If they were not indisposed or on duties elsewhere, I'm certain they would have been happy to consult with you. I share your frustration. But I assure you, my government will do everything in its power to cooperate on this matter."
"The United States Attorney's Office has reason to believe that three men going under the names of Joseph Zolar, Charles Oxley, and Cyrus Sarason, all brothers, are conducting a massive international operation dealing in stolen art, smuggled artifacts, and art forgery. We also have reason to believe they have abducted one of our respected congressional legislators and an official of our most prestigious marine science agency."
Matos smiled blandly behind his bureaucratic defenses. "Utterly ridiculous. As you very well know, gentlemen, after your fruitless raid on the Zolars' facilities in Texas, their reputation remains untarnished."
Gaskill smiled wryly at Ragsdale. "News travels fast."
"These men you seem intent on persecuting have violated no laws in Mexico. We have no legal cause to investigate them."
"What are you doing about securing the release of Congresswoman Smith and Deputy Director Gunn?"
"Our finest investigative police teams are working on the case," Matos assured him. "My superiors have already made arrangements to pay the ransom demands. And I can guarantee it is only a question of a few hours before the bandits responsible for this travesty are captured and your people rescued unharmed."
"Our sources claim the Zolars are the criminals who are responsible."
Matos shook his head. "No, no, the evidence proves a gang of thieving bandits is behind the abduction."
