Inca Gold - Cussler Clive (читать онлайн полную книгу .TXT) 📗

    "Between their coverage and ours," said Giordino, "we must have exhausted every island that comes anywhere close to the right geological features."

    "I agree," said Pitt thoughtfully. "But I'm convinced we're all on the right playing field."

    "Then where is it? Where in hell is that damned demon?"

    Pitt motioned down at the sea. "Sitting somewhere down there. Right where it's been for almost five hundred years. Thumbing its nose at us."

    Giordino pointed at the other aircraft. "Our search buddies are climbing up to check us out. You want me to ditch them?"

    "No point. Their airspeed is a good eighty kilometers per hour faster than ours. Maintain a steady course toward the ferry and act innocent."

    "Nice-looking Baffin seaplane," said Giordino. "You don't see them except in the North Canadian lake country."

    "He's moving in a bit close for a passing stranger, wouldn't you say?"

    "Either he's being neighborly or he wants to read our name tags."

    Pitt stared through the binoculars at the cockpit of the plane that was now flying alongside the NUMA helicopter no more than 50 meters (164 feet) away.

    "What do you see?" asked Giordino, minding his flying.

    "Some guy staring back at me through binoculars," replied Pitt with a grin.

    "Maybe we should call them up and invite them over for ajar of Grey Poupon mustard."

    The passenger in the seaplane dropped his glasses for a moment to massage his eyes before resuming his inspection. Pitt pressed his elbows against his body to steady his view. When he lowered the binoculars, he was no longer smiling.

    "An old friend from Peru," he said in cold surprise.

    Giordino turned and looked at Pitt curiously. "Old friend?"

    "Dr. Steve Miller's imposter come back to haunt us."

    Pitt's smile returned, and it was hideously diabolic. Then he waved.

    If Pitt was surprised at the unexpected confrontation, Sarason was stunned. "You!" he gasped.

    "What did you say?" asked Oxley.

    His senses reeling at seeing the man who had caused him so much grief, uncertain if this was a trick of his mind, Sarason refocused the binoculars and examined the devil that was grinning fiendishly and waving slowly like a mourner at graveside bidding goodbye to the departed. A slight shift of the binoculars and all color drained from his face as he recognized Giordino as the pilot.

    "The men in that helicopter," he said, his voice thick, "are the same two who wreaked havoc on our operation in Peru."

    Oxley looked unconvinced. "Think of the odds, brother. Are you certain?"

    "It's them, there can be no others. Their faces are burned in my memory. They cost our family millions of dollars in artifacts that were later seized by Peruvian government archaeologists."

    Moore was listening intently. "Why are they here?"

    "The same purpose we are. Someone must have leaked information on our project." He turned and glared at Moore. "Perhaps the good professor has friends at NUMA?"

    "My only connection with the government is on April fifteenth when I file my income tax return," Moore said testily. "Whoever they are, they're no friends of mine."

    Oxley remained dubious. "Henry's right. Impossible for him to have made outside contact. Our security is too tight. Your assertion might make more sense to me if they were Customs officials, not scientists or engineers from an oceanographic research agency."

    "No. I swear it's the same men who appeared out of nowhere and rescued the archaeologist and photographer from the sacred well. Their names are Dirk Pitt and Al Giordino. Pitt is the most dangerous of the two. He was the one who killed my men and emasculated Tupac Amaru. We must follow them and find out where they're operating from."

    "I have only enough fuel to make it back to Guaymas," said Oxley. "We'll have to let them go."

    "Force them down, force them to crash," Sarason demanded.

    Oxley shook his head. "If they're as dangerous as you suggest, they may well be armed, and we're not. Relax, brother, we'll meet up with them again."

    "They're scavengers, using NUMA as a cover to beat us to the treasure."

    "Think what you're saying," snapped Moore. "It is absolutely impossible for them to know where to search. My wife and I were the only ones ever to decode the images on the golden mummy suit. Either this has to be a coincidence or you're hallucinating."

    "As my brother can tell you," said Sarason coldly, "I am not one to hallucinate."

    "A couple of NUMA underwater freaks who roam the world fighting evil," muttered Moore sharply. "You'd better lay off the mescal."

    Sarason did not hear Moore. The thought of Amaru triggered something inside Sarason. He slowly regained control, the initial shock replaced by malevolence. He could not wait to unleash the mad dog from the Andes.

    "This time," he murmured nastily, "they will be the ones who pay."

    Joseph Zolar had finally arrived in his jet and was waiting in the dining room of the hacienda with Micki Moore when the searchers entered wearily and sat down. "I guess I don't have to ask if you've found anything. The look on your faces reflects defeat."

    "We'll find it," said Oxley through a yawn. "The demon has to be out there somewhere."

    "I'm not as confident," muttered Moore, reaching for a glass of chilled chardonnay. "We've almost run out of islands to search."

    Sarason came over and gave Zolar a brotherly pat on both shoulders. "We expected you three days ago."

    "I was delayed. A transaction that netted us one million two hundred thousand Swiss francs."

    "A dealer?"

    "A collector. A Saudi sheik."

    "How did the Vincente deal go?"

    "Sold him the entire lot, with the exception of those damned Indian ceremonial idols. For some inexplicable reason, they scared the hell out of him."

    Samson laughed. "Maybe it's the curse."

    Zolar shrugged impassively. "If they come with a curse, it simply means the next potential buyer will have to pay a premium."

    "Did you bring the idols with you?" asked Oxley. "I'd like to have a look at them."

    "They're in a packing crate inside the cargo hold of the airplane." Zolar glanced admiringly at the quesadilla that was placed in front of him on a plate. "I had hoped you would greet me with good news."

    "You can't say we haven't tried," replied Moore. "We've examined every rock that sticks out of the sea from the Colorado River south to Cabo San Lucas, and haven't seen anything remotely resembling a stone demon with wings and a serpent's head."

    "I hate to bring more grim tidings," Sarason said to Zolar, "but we met up with my friends who messed things up in Peru."

    Zolar looked at him, puzzled. "Not those two, devils from NUMA?"

    "The same. As incredible as it sounds, I believe they're after Huascar's gold too."

    "I'm forced to agree," said Oxley. "Why else did they pop up in the same area?"

    "Impossible for them to know something we don't," said Zolar.