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

    "Then it's true," Sarason said with a pleased expression. "You found the beast that guards the gold on the top of Cerro el Capirote."

    "If you had dropped for a closer look instead of playing peekaboo in the clouds, you'd have seen the beast for yourself."

    Pitt's last words brought a flicker of curiosity to the beady eyes.

    "You were aware you were being followed?" asked Sarason.

    ` It goes without saying that you would have searched for our helicopter after our chance meeting in the air yesterday. My guess is you checked out landing fields on both sides of the Gulf last night and asked questions until someone it San Felipe innocently pointed the way to our ferry.'

    "You're very astute."

    "Not really. I made the mistake of overestimating you. I didn't think you'd act like a reckless amateur and begin mutilating the competition. An act that was completely unwarranted."

    Puzzlement filled Sarason's eyes. "What goes on here, Pitt?"

    "All part of the plan," answered Pitt almost jovially. "I purposely led you to the jackpot."

    "A barefaced lie."

    "You've been set up, pal. Get wise. Why do you think I let off Dr. Kelsey, Rodgers, and Giordino before I returned to the ferry? To keep them out of your dirty hands, that's why."

    Sarason said slowly. "You couldn't have known we were going to capture your boat before you came back."

    "Not with any certainty. Let's say my intuition was working overtime. That and the fact my radio calls to the ferry went unanswered."

    A shrewd hyenalike look slowly spread across Sarason's face. "Nice try, Pitt. You'd make an excellent writer of children's stories."

    "You don't believe me?" Pitt asked, as if surprised.

    "Not a word."

    "What are you going to do with us?"

    Sarason looked disgustingly cheerful. "You're more naive than I gave you credit for. You know full well what's going to happen to you."

    "Crowding your luck, aren't you, Sarason? Murdering Congresswoman Smith will bring half the United States law enforcement officers down around your neck."

    "Nobody will know she was murdered," he said impassively. "Your ferryboat will simply go to the bottom with all hands. An unfortunate accident that is never fully solved."

    "There is still Kelsey, Giordino, and Rodgers. They're safe and sound in California, ready to spill the story to Customs and FBI agents."

    "We're not in the United States. We're in the sovereign nation of Mexico. The local authorities will conduct an extensive investigation but will turn up no evidence of foul play despite unfounded accusations from your friends."

    "With close to a billion dollars at stake, I should have known you'd be generous in buying the cooperation of local officials."

    "They couldn't wait to sign on board after we promised them a share of the treasure," Sarason boasted.

    "Considering how much there is to go around," said Pitt, "you could afford to play Santa Claus."

    Sarason looked at the setting sun. "It's getting late in the day. I think we've chatted long enough." He turned and spoke a name that sent a shiver through Pitt. "Tupac, come and say hello to the man who made you impotent."

    Tupac Amaru stepped from behind one of the guards and stood in front of Pitt, his teeth set and grinning like a skull on a pirate's Jolly Roger flag. He had the joyful but clinical look of a butcher sizing up a slab of prime, specially aged beef.

    "I told you I would make you suffer as you made me," Amaru said ominously.

    Pitt studied the evil face with a strangely paralyzed intensity. He didn't need a football coach to diagram what was in store for him. He braced his body to begin the scheme he had formed in the back of his mind right after he had stepped out of the helicopter. He moved toward Loren, but stepped slightly sideways and inconspicuously began to hyperventilate.

    "If you are the one who harmed Congresswoman Smith, you will die as surely as you stand there with that stupid look on your face."

    Sarason laughed. "No, no. You, Mr. Pitt, are not going to kill anybody."

    "Neither are you. Even in Mexico you'd hang if there was a witness to your executions."

    "I'd be the first to admit it." Sarason surveyed Pitt inquiringly. "But what witness are you talking about?" He paused to sweep an arm around the empty sea. "As you can see, the nearest land is empty desert almost twenty kilometers away, and the only vessel in sight is our fishing boat standing off the starboard bow."

    Pitt tilted his head up and stared at the wheelhouse. "What about the ferryboat's pilot?"

    All the heads turned as one, all that is except Gunn's. He nodded unobserved at Pitt and then raised a hand, pointing at the empty pilothouse. "Hide, Pedro!" he cried loudly. "Run and hide."

    Three seconds were all Pitt needed. Three seconds to run four steps and leap over the railing into the sea.

    Two of the guards caught the sudden movement from the edge of their vision, whirled and fired one quick burst from their automatic rifles on reflex. But they fired high, and they fired late. Pitt had struck the water and vanished into the murky depths.

    Pitt hit the water stroking and kicking with the fervor of a possessed demon. An Olympic committee of judges would have been impressed, he must have set a new world record for the underwater dash. The water was warm but the visibility below the surface was less than a meter due to the murk caused by silt flowing in from the Colorado River. The blast of the gunfire was magnified by the density of the water and sounded like an artillery barrage to Pitt's ears.

    The bullets struck and penetrated the sea with the unlikely sound of a zipper being closed. Pitt leveled out when his hands scoured the bottom, causing an eruption of fine silt. He recalled learning during his U.S. Air Force days that a bullet's velocity was spent after traveling a meter and a half (5 feet) through water. Beyond that depth, it sank harmlessly to the seafloor.

    When the light above the surface went dark, he knew he had passed under the port side of the Alhambra's hull. His timing was lucky. It was approaching high tide and the ferryboat was now riding two meters off the bottom. He swam slowly and steadily, exhaling a small amount of air from his lungs, angling on a course astern that he hoped would bring him up on the starboard side near the big paddlewheels. His oxygen intake was nearly exhausted, and he began to see a darkening fuzziness creeping around the borders of his vision, when the shadow of the ferry abruptly ended and he could see a bright surface again.

    He broke into air 2 meters (6.5 feet) abaft of the sheltered interior of the starboard paddlewheel. There was no question of his risking exposure. It was that or drown. The question was whether Sarason's goons had predicted what his game plan would be and run over from the opposite side of the vessel. He could still hear sporadic gunfire striking the water on the port side, and his hopes rose. They weren't on to him, at least not yet.

    Pitt sucked in hurried breaths of pure air while getting his bearings. And then he was diving under the temporary safety of the ferry's huge paddlewheels. After gauging the distance, he raised a hand above his head and slowly kicked upward. His hand made contact with an unyielding wood beam. He clutched it and lifted his head above the water. He felt as if he had entered a vast barn with support beams running every which way.