Sarason silently cursed himself. He had not picked up on how dangerous Moore was. Why would Moore act the role of a drunk if not to lull everyone into thinking he was harmless? He slowly began to comprehend that Henry Moore was not entirely what he seemed. There was more to the famous and respected anthropologist than met the eye, much more.
As a man who could kill without the slightest remorse, Sarason should have recognized another killer when he saw one.
Micki Moore stepped out of the blue-tiled swimming pool below the hacienda and stretched out on a lounge chair. She was wearing a red bikini that did very little to conceal her thin form. The sun was warm and she did not dry herself, preferring to let the water drops cling to her body. She glanced up at the main house and motioned to one of the servants to bring her another rum collins. She acted as though she were the mistress of the manor, totally disregarding the armed guards who roamed the grounds. Her behavior was hardly in keeping with someone who was being held hostage.
The hacienda was built around the pool and a large garden filled with a variety of tropical plants. All major rooms had balconies with dramatic views of the sea and the town of Guaymas. She was more than happy to relax around the pool or in her skylit bedroom with its own patio and Jacuzzi while the men flew up and down the Gulf in search of the treasure. She picked up her watch from a small table. Five o'clock. The conniving brothers and her husband would be returning soon. She sighed with pleasure at the thought of another fabulous dinner of local dishes.
After the servant girl brought the rum collins, Micki drank it down to the ice cubes and settled back for a brief nap. Just before she drifted off, she thought she heard a car drive up the road from town and stop at the front gate of the hacienda.
When she awoke a short time later, her skin felt cool and she sensed that the sun had passed behind a cloud. But then she opened her eyes, and was startled to see a man standing over her, his shadow thrown across the upper half of her body.
The eyes that stared at her looked like stagnant black pools. There was no life to them. Even his face seemed incapable of expression. The stranger appeared emaciated, as if he been sick for a long time. Micki shivered as though an icy breeze suddenly swept over her. She thought it odd that he took no notice of her exposed body, but gazed directly into her eyes. She felt as if he were looking inside her.
'Who are you?' she asked. 'Do you work for Mr. Zolar?'
He did not reply for several seconds. When he spoke, it was with an odd voice with no inflection. 'My name is Tupac Amaru.'
And then he turned and walked away.
Admiral Sandecker stood in front of his desk and held out his hand as Gaskill and Ragsdale were ushered into his office. He gave a friendly smile. 'Gentlemen, please take a seat and get comfortable.'
Gaskill looked down at the little man who stood slightly below his shoulders. 'Thank you for taking the time to see us.'
'NUMA has worked with Customs and the FBI in the past. Our relations were always based on cordial cooperation.'
'I hope you weren't apprehensive when we asked to meet with you,' said Ragsdale.
'Curious is more like it. Would you like some coffee?'
Gaskill nodded. 'Black for me, thank you.'
'Whatever artificial sweetener that's handy in mine,' said Ragsdale.
Sandecker spoke into his intercom, and then looked up and asked, 'Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?'
Ragsdale came straight to the point. 'We'd like NUMA's help settling a thorny problem dealing with stolen artifacts.'
'A little out of our line,' said Sandecker. 'Our field is ocean science and engineering.'
Gaskill nodded. 'We understand, but it has come to Customs' attention that someone in your agency has smuggled a valuable artifact into the country illegally.'
'That someone was me,' Sandecker shot back without batting an eye.
Ragsdale and Gaskill glanced at each other and shifted uneasily in their chairs. This turn of events was not what they had expected.
'Are you aware, Admiral, that the United States prohibits the importing of stolen artifacts under a United Nations convention that seeks to protect antiquities worldwide?'
'I am.'
'And are you also aware, sir, that officials at the Ecuadorian embassy have filed a protest?'
'As a matter of fact, I instigated the protest.'
Gaskill sighed and visibly relaxed. 'I had a feeling in my bones there was more to this than a simple smuggling.'
'I think Mr. Gaskill and I would both appreciate an explanation,' said Ragsdale.
Sandecker paused as his private secretary, Julie Wolff, entered with a tray of coffee cups and set them on the edge of his desk. 'Excuse me, Admiral, but Rudi Gunn called from San Felipe to report that he and Al Giordino have landed and are making final preparations for the project.'
'What is Dirk's status?'
'He's driving and should be somewhere in Texas about now.'
Sandecker turned back to the government agents after Julie had closed the door. 'Sorry for the interruption. Where were we?'
'You were going to tell us why you smuggled a stolen artifact into the United States,' said Ragsdale, his face serious.
The admiral casually opened a box of his cigars and offered them. The agents shook their heads. He leaned back in his desk chair, lit a cigar, and graciously blew a cloud of blue smoke over his shoulder toward an open window. Then he told them the story of Drake's quipu, beginning with the war between the Inca princes and ending with Hiram Yaeger's translation of the coiled strands and their knots.
'But surely, Admiral,' questioned Ragsdale, 'you and NUMA don't intend to get into the treasure hunting business?'
'We most certainly do.' Sandecker smiled.
'I wish you'd explain the Ecuadorian protest,' said Gaskill.
'As insurance. Ecuador is in bitter conflict with an army of peasant rebels in the mountains. Their government officials were not about to allow us to search for the quipu and then take it to the United States for decoding and preservation for fear their people would think they had sold a priceless national treasure to foreigners. By claiming we stole it, they're off the hook. So they agreed to loan the guipu to NUMA for a year. And when we return it with the proper ceremony, they'll be applauded as national heroes.'
'But why NUMA?' Ragsdale persisted. 'Why not the Smithsonian or National Geographic?'
'Because we don't have a proprietary interest. And we're in a better position to keep the search and discovery out of the public eye.'
'But you can't legally keep any of it.'
'Of course not. If it's discovered in the Sea of Cortez, where we believe it lies, Mexico will cry `finders keepers.' Peru will claim original ownership, and the two countries will have to negotiate, thereby assuring the treasures will eventually be displayed in their national museums.'
'And our State Department will get credit for a public relations coup with our good neighbors to the south,' added Ragsdale.
'You said it, sir, not me.'
'Why didn't you notify Customs or the FBI about this?' inquired Gaskill.
'I informed the President,' Sandecker replied matter-of-factly. 'If he failed to filter the information from the White House to your agencies, then you'll just have to blame the White House.'
Ragsdale finished his coffee and set the cup on the tray. 'You've closed the door on one problem that concerned us all, Admiral. And believe me when I say we are extremely relieved at not having to put you through the hassle of an investigation. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint, you've opened the door to another dilemma.'
