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Pull on this line and I guarantee you'll change your mind."
"You attached the other end?" she challenged him. "To what?"
"A set of bones masquerading as a Spanish conquistador."
"You're beyond belief," she said helplessly.
It was a long time since a woman had stared at him like that. "Do you think I'm a head case? Do you think I enjoy this? I damn well don't enjoy spending my time saving your backside. Okay, you want to die and be buried in a thousand bits and pieces, enjoy the trip."
Uncertainty crept into her expression. "You're not making sense."
"Perhaps a little demonstration is in order." Pitt gently pulled in the line until it became taut. Then he gave it a hard jerk.
For a moment nothing happened. Then a rumbling came from the bottom of the well, swelling in volume, sending tremors through the limestone walls. The violence of the explosion was electrifying. The underwater blast came like the eruption of a huge depth charge as a seething column of white froth and green slime burst out of the sinkhole, splattering everyone and everything standing within 20 meters (66
feet) of the edge. The thunder of the explosion rolled over the jungle as the spray fell back into the sinkhole, leaving a heavy mist that swirled into the sky and temporarily blocked out the sun.
Shannon stood half-drenched and stared down into her beloved sacred well as if she couldn't make up her mind whether or not to be sick. Everyone around the edge stood like statues suddenly frozen in shock. Only Pitt looked as though he'd witnessed an everyday event.
Fading incomprehension and the tentative beginnings of understanding appeared in Shannon's eyes.
"How in God's name did you know. . ."
"That there was a booby trap?" Pitt finished. "No great deduction. Whoever buried a good forty-five kilograms of high explosive under the skeleton made two major mistakes. One, why clean out every antiquity but the most obvious? And two, the bones couldn't have been more than fifty years old and the armor hasn't rusted enough to have been underwater for four centuries."
"Who would have done such a thing?" asked Rodgers dazedly.
"The same man who murdered Doc Miller," answered Pitt.
"The imposter?"
"More likely Amaru. The man who took Miller's place didn't want to risk exposure and investigation by Peruvian authorities, not before they cleaned out the City of the Dead. The Solperrzachaco had robbed the sacrificial well of its artifacts long before you arrived. That's why the imposter sent out a call for help when you and Shannon vanished in the sinkhole. It was all part of the plot to make your deaths look like an accident. Although he felt reasonably sure that you'd be sucked into the adjoining cavern by the underwater surge before you could fully search the bottom and realize all artifacts had been removed, he hedged his bets by lowering the phony conquistador into position purely as a red herring to blow you to pieces in the event the surge didn't carry you away."
Shannon's eyes took on a saddened and disillusioned look. "Then all antiquities from the sacred well are gone."
"You can take a small measure of cheer in knowing they were removed and not destroyed," said Pitt.
"They'll turn up," said Giordino consolingly. "They can't remain hidden away in some rich guy's collection forever."
"You don't understand the discipline of archaeology," Shannon said dully. "No scholar can study the artifacts, classify or trace them without knowing their exact site of origin. Now we can learn nothing of the people who once lived here and built the city. A vast archive, a time capsule of scientific information, has been irretrievably lost."
"I'm sorry all your hopes and efforts have come to grief," Pitt said sincerely.
"Grief, yes," she said, thoroughly defeated now. "More like a tragedy."
Rudi Gunn walked back from the helicopter that was transporting Miller's body to the morgue in Lima.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said to Pitt. "Our job is finished here. I suggest we pack up the helicopter, lift off, and rendezvous with Dr. Ortiz at the City of the Dead."
Pitt nodded and turned to Shannon. "Well, shall we move on to the next disaster your antiquity looters have left us?"
Dr. Alberto Ortiz was a lean, wiry old bird in his early seventies. He stood off to one side of the helicopter landing site dressed in a white duck shirt and matching pants. A long, flowing, white moustache drooped across his face, making him look like a wanted poster for an aging Mexican bandido. If flamboyance was his trademark, it was demonstrated by a wide-brimmed panama hat sporting a colorful band, a pair of expensive designer sandals, and a tall iced drink in one hand. A Hollywood casting director searching for someone to play a beachcomber in a South Seas epic would easily have decided that Dr. Ortiz fit the role to perfection. He was not what the NUMA men had pictured as Peru's most renowned expert on ancient culture.
He came smiling to greet the newcomers, drink in left hand, right extended for shaking. "You're early,"
he said warmly in almost perfect English. "I didn't expect you for another two or three days."
"Dr. Kelsey's project was cut short unexpectedly," said Pitt, grasping a strong, callused hand.
