'I trust you will find it before tomorrow morning,' Sarason said dryly.
Oxley fought the urge to doze off. He had been at the controls since nine o'clock in the morning and his neck was stiff with weariness. He held the control column between his knees and poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos. He took a swallow and made a face. It was not only cold but tasted as strong as battery acid. Suddenly, his eye caught a flash of green from under a cloud. He pointed out the window to the right of the Baffin flying boat.
'Don't see many helicopters in this part of the Gulf,' he said casually.
Sarason didn't bother to look. 'Must be a Mexican navy patrol plane.'
'No doubt looking for a drunken fisherman with a broken engine,' added Moore.
Oxley shook his head. 'I can't ever recall seeing a turquoise military aircraft.'
Sarason looked up, startled. 'Turquoise? Can you make out its markings?'
Oxley lifted the binoculars and peered through the windscreen. 'American.'
'A Drug Enforcement Agency patrol working with Mexican authorities, probably.'
'No, it belongs to National Underwater and Marine Agency. I wonder what they're doing in the Gulf?'
'They conduct ocean surveys all over the world,' said Moore unconcernedly.
Sarason stiffened as though he'd been shot. 'Two scum from NUMA wrecked our operation in Peru.'
'Hardly seems likely there's a connection,' said Oxley.
'What operation did NUMA wreck in Peru?' asked Moore, sniffing the air.
'They stepped outside their jurisdiction,' answered Sarason vaguely.
'I'd like to hear about it sometime.'
'Not a subject that concerns you,' Sarason said, brushing him off. 'How many people in the craft?'
'Looks like a model that seats four,' replied Oxley, 'but I only see a pilot and one passenger.'
'Are they approaching or headed away?'
'The pilot has turned onto a converging course that will cross about two hundred meters above us.'
'Can you ascend and turn with him?' asked Sarason. 'I want a closer look.'
'Since aviation authorities can't take away a license I never applied for--' Oxley smiled-- 'I'll put you in the pilot's lap.'
'Is that safe?' Moore asked.
Oxley grinned. 'Depends on the other pilot.'
Sarason took the binoculars and peered at the turquoise helicopter. This was a different model from the one that had landed at the sacrificial well. That one had a shorter fuselage and landing skids. This one had retractable landing gear. But there was no mistaking the color scheme and markings. He told himself it was ridiculous to think the men in the approaching helicopter could possibly be the same ones who appeared out of nowhere in the Andes.
He trained the binoculars on the helicopter's cockpit. In another few seconds he would be able to discern the faces inside. For some strange, inexplicable reason his calm began to crack and he felt his nerves tighten.
'What do you think?' asked Giordino. 'Could they be the ones?'
'They could be.' Pitt stared through a pair of naval glasses at the amphibian seaplane flying on a diagonal course below the helicopter. 'After watching the pilot circle Estanque Island for fifteen minutes as if he were looking for something on the peak, I think it's safe to say we've met up with our competition.'
'According to Sandecker, they launched their search two days ahead of us,' said Giordino. 'Since they're still taking in the sights, they can't have experienced any success either.'
Pitt smiled. 'Sort of gladdens the heart, doesn't it?'
'If they can't find it, and we can't find it, then the Incas must have sold us a wagon load of hocus pocus.'
'I don't think so. Stop and consider. There are two different search efforts in the same area, but as far as we know both teams are using two unrelated sets of instructions. We have the Inca quipu while they're following the engravings on a golden mummy suit. At the worst, our separate sets of clues would have led us to different locations. No, the ancients haven't misled us. The treasure is out there. We simply haven't looked in the right place.'
Giordino always marveled that Pitt could sit for hours analyzing charts, studying instruments, mentally recording every ship on the sea below, the geology of the offshore islands, and every variance of the wind without the slightest sign of fatigue, his concentration always focused. He had to suffer the same muscle aches, joint stiffness, and nervous stress that plagued Giordino, but he gave no indication of discomfort. In truth, Pitt felt every ache and pain, but he could shut it all from his mind and keep going as strongly as when he started in the morning.
'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
