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"One last favor," said Giordino, holding up the empty harness straps that once supported his air tanks.
"Wrap my legs together to k
eep them from flopping around."
Pitt cinched the straps as tight as he dared, conscious of his broken wrist and the need to be gentle.
Except for a sharp intake of breath, Giordino uttered no sound. "Rest up for at least an hour before you follow," Pitt ordered.
"Just get a move on and do what you can to save Loren and Rudi. I'll be along as soon as I'm able."
"I'll keep a watch for you."
"Better find a big net."
Pitt gave Giordino's arm a farewell grip. Then he waded into the river until the current swept him off his feet and carried him into the next cavern.
Giordino watched until Pitt's light vanished around the next bend in the canyon and was lost in the darkness. Two kilometers (1.2 miles), he mused. He hoped to God the final leg of the journey was in airfilled chambers.
Zolar drew a long, relieved breath. Things had gone well, better than he'd expected. The project was winding down. The trailer used for the operations office, the forklift, and the winch had been airlifted away along with most of Colonel Campos's men. Only a small squad of army engineers remained behind to load the final lot onto the army transport helicopter that was parked beside the stolen NUMA craft.
Zolar looked down at the remaining pieces of the golden treasure, which stood in a neat row. He studied the brilliantly gleaming antiquities with an eye toward their ultimate sale price. The artistry and magnificence of the metalwork of the twenty-eight golden statues of Inca warriors was indescribable.
They each stood one meter high and provided a rare glimpse into the creative mastery of Inca artisans.
"A few more and you'd have yourself a chess set," said Oxley, admiring the golden display.
"A pity I won't keep them," replied Zolar sadly. "But I'm afraid I'll have to be content with using the profits from my share of their sale to buy legitimate artifacts for my personal collection."
Fernando Matos hungrily devoured the sight of the golden army with his eyes while he mentally estimated his 2 percent cut of the spoils. "We have nothing that can touch this in our National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City."
"You can always donate your share," said Oxley sarcastically.
Matos shot him a barbed look and started to say something but was cut off by the approach of Colonel Campos. "Lieutenant Ramos reports from the cavern that no objects remain inside the mountain.
As soon as he and his men arrive from below, they will load the objects. Then I will be on my way to the airstrip to oversee the transshipment."
"Thank you, Colonel," Zolar said politely. He didn't trust Campos as far as he could throw the stone demon. "If you have no objections, the rest of us will join you."
"But of course." Campos looked around the nearly vacated summit. "And your other people?"
Zolar's deepset eyes took on a cold look. "My brother Cyrus and his crew will follow in our helicopter as soon as they tie up a pair of loose ends."
Campos understood. He smiled cynically. "It makes me sick to think about all the bandits running loose to rob and murder foreign visitors."
While they waited for Lieutenant Ramos and his squad to exit the passageway and load the artifacts, Matos walked over and inspected the stone demon. He reached out and laid his hand on the neck and was surprised at the coolness of the stone after it had been absorbing the sun's rays all day. Abruptly, he jerked his hand back. It felt as if the cold stone had suddenly turned pliant and slimy like the scaly skin of a fish.
He stepped back, startled, and half spun around to hurry away. At that instant he saw a human head rising over the edge of the sharp drop in front of the demon. As a man who grew up in a family of university instructors, he did not believe in superstition and folklore. Matos stood frozen more out of curiosity than fright.
The head rose and was seen to be attached to the body of a man who wearily climbed onto the surface of the summit. Then the intruder stood unsteadily for a moment and aimed an old rifle at Matos.
Yuma had lain on a ledge for nearly a full minute, catching his breath and waiting for his heart to slow.
When he lifted his head over the rim, he saw a strange looking little man with a bald head and huge glasses, incongruously dressed in a business suit with shirt and tie, staring back at him. To Yuma, the man reminded him of the government officials who passed through the Montolo village once a year, promising aid in the form of fertilizer, feed and grain, and money, but went on their way and never delivered. After climbing over the rim of the slope he also spotted a group of men standing by the army helicopter 30
meters (100 feet) away. They did not notice him. He had planned the climb to terminate behind the great stone demon out of sight of anyone. Except Matos, who unfortunately happened to be standing nearby.
He pointed his worn and scarred old Winchester at the man and spoke softly. "Do not make a sound or you die."
