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"True, an event that was inconceivable at the time."
As Chaco spoke, his empty eyes gazed at a small stone statue of a winged jaguar that was dug up in the valley of the dead. Finally he said quietly, "I'll arrange for our hired mercenaries from the Peruvian army to drop in the Pueblo de los Muertos by helicopter within two hours."
"Do you have confidence in the commanding officer to do the job?"
Chaco smiled to himself. "If I can't trust my own brother, who can I trust?"
"I never believed in resurrection of mere mortals." Pitt stood gazing down at the pool of crimson on the landing above the near-vertical stairway leading to the floor of the valley. "But this is as good an example as I've ever seen."
"He was dead," Rodgers said emphatically. "I was standing as close to him as I am to you when Amaru put a bullet through his heart. Blood was everywhere. You saw him lying here. There can be no doubt in your mind Doc was a corpse."
"I didn't take the time to do a postmortem examination."
"Okay, but how do you explain the trail of blood from the interior chamber where Doc was shot?
There must be a gallon of it spread from here to there."
"Closer to a pint," said Pitt thoughtfully. "You exaggerate."
"How long would you guess the body rested here from the time you knocked out the guard and then released the students who arrived and tied him up?" asked Rodgers.
"Four, maybe five minutes at the outside."
"And within that time a sixty-seven-year-old dead man bounds down two hundred tiny, narrow, niched steps laid on a seventy-five-degree angle. Steps that can't be taken more than one at a time without falling, and then he vanishes without shedding another drop of blood." Rodgers shook his head.
"Houdini would have flushed with envy."
"Are you sure it was Doc Miller?" Pitt asked pensively.
"Of course it was Doc," Rodgers said incredulously. "Who else do you think it was?"
"How long have you known him?"
"By reputation, at least fifteen years. Personally
, I only met him five days ago." Rodgers stared at Pitt as if he were a madman. "Look, you're fishing in empty waters. Doc is one of the world's leading anthropologists. He is to ancient American culture what Leakey is to African prehistory. His face has graced a hundred articles in dozens of magazines from the Smithsonian to the National Geographic. He has narrated and appeared in any number of public service television documentaries on early man. Doc was no recluse, he loved publicity. He was easily recognizable."
"Just fishing," Pitt said in a patient explaining tone. "Nothing like a wild plot to stir the mind-'
He broke off as Shannon and Giordino sprinted into view around the circular base of the temple. Even at this height above the ground he could see they appeared agitated. He waited until Giordino was halfway up the stairs before he shouted.
"Don't tell me, somebody beat you to the radio and smashed it."
Giordino paused, leaning against the sheer stairway. "Wrong," he shouted back. "It was gone.
Snatched by person or persons unknown."
By the time Shannon and Giordino reached the top of the stairs they were both panting from the exertion and glistening with sweat. Shannon daintily patted her face with a soft tissue all women seem to produce at the most crucial times. Giordino merely rubbed an already damp sleeve across his forehead.
"Whoever built this thing," he said between breaths, "should have installed an elevator."
"Did you find the tomb with the radio?" Pitt asked.
Giordino nodded. "We found it all right. No cheapskates, these guys. The tomb was furnished right out of Abercrombie & Fitch. The best outdoor paraphernalia money can buy. There was even a portable generator providing power to a refrigerator."
"Empty?" Pitt guessed.
Giordino nodded. "The rat who made off with the radio took the time to smash nearly four sixpacks of perfectly good Coors beer."
