but single-mindedness in a situation like this impaired the ability to adapt and recognize options and alternative solutions. And besides, he didn't much care for the idea of having to drag his old friend's corpse down out of the Andes.
'What did you think of the pilot?' Gearhardt asked.
'Merritt? Or should I say the former James Merritt Westlake? I read his dossier, same as you. Went AWOL from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment during his second tour in Afghanistan in 2002. Just up and vanished in the middle of the night. Somehow, he managed to get out of the Middle East, and ended up here, piloting that flying heap of junk. In times of war, going absent without leave equates to desertion, an offense just shy of treason. If the Army were to somehow learn his whereabouts, they'd have him cuffed and on a plane stateside in a matter of hours. And now he reappears with your son's remains and a priceless headdress that could have financed a comfortable retirement down here where no one could ever find him. He took a huge risk sticking his neck out like that. Just walking into the Consulate where they could have challenged his fake identification and arrested him on the spot took serious balls.'
'That's not what I asked, and you know it.'
Colton sighed. 'I don't trust any man who doesn't try to fence the headdress, or at least melt it down and sell it, under the circumstances. It goes against human nature. No one would have known, let alone caught him. Not unless he had his eye on the bigger score, and even then he'd be stupid to turn in the artifact. In my opinion, this makes him unpredictable. But to answer your question, no, I don't think he had anything to do with your son's death. I do, however, think he knows more than he's letting on.'
'And this unpredictability? How does it factor into the equation?'
'It could not be a factor at all. He could climb back in his plane, take off, and we'd never hear from him again. Or...' Colton paused. 'Once we turn our backs on him, we could find that we've made a terrible mistake. He was in special ops after all, and I've learned not to trust a military man.'
'You were a military man.'
Colton smirked. 'You're the one who has to trust
'So what do you suggest?'
'How much do you think it would take to convince Mr. Merritt to willingly join our expedition without having to threaten him with his past? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, and all that.'
'What if he proves...unpredictable along the way?'
Colton smiled and nodded toward the doorway to the adjacent room, through which he could see two of the four men he had personally selected as their 'dig crew' leaning against the far wall, taking advantage of the downtime while they could.
'We're prepared for every contingency,' Colton said. 'There's absolutely nothing we can't handle.'
III
Sam sat on the blonde sands of the shore and watched the sun rise across the rolling blue lake. The crescent ball of celestial fire seemed to set the gentle waves ablaze in a stunning showcase of oranges and yellows. She had nearly forgotten how beautiful this area of the world truly was. The smell of dew and exotic blossoms rather than exhaust and pavement; birdsong and the lapping of waves versus the grumble of traffic and airplanes; the crisp blue sky unfettered by the haze of pollution. She almost imagined she could see the thin rays radiating from the sun. Had it really been two years since she'd been here last? The bustle and demands of the university had swept her away, but it almost felt as though her heart had been here the entire time and now suddenly she was again whole, at peace with herself and the universe. She wished she could sit in this very spot forever, but there was a part of her that was raring to strike off into the mountains, where somewhere, hidden for centuries, lay the virgin ruins of the ancient civilization that had spawned the unique headdress, itself an amalgamous anomaly of cultural hybridization that should by no means even exist. The mystery of its origin was thrilling. Just thinking about it caused her heart to race.
She took a sip of the steaming guarana bean coffee and savored its bitter tang. This was one of the few perks of modern society she was going to miss in the weeks ahead. Boiling a handful of grounds over a fire served its purpose, but it just wasn't the same. Not by a long shot.
Draining the last of the brew, she rose from the sand and mounted the pier, accompanied by the hollow
The dark-skinned pilot dropped a large duffel bag that made a crashing sound.
'Careful!' she shouted.
He looked up at her, shrugged, and muttered something under his breath. Her Spanish was a little rusty, but she recognized that he hadn't been apologizing. He turned away and went back to piling their belongings in an ugly heap that threatened to topple into the lake.
'If any of that stuff is broken---'
'You can take it out of my check,' the other pilot said.
'That equipment is worth more than you make in a year.'
'You'd be surprised what I make.' The man offered a lopsided grin before resuming his task. 'You could always help, you know.'
'Sure. I'll do your job and then you can do mine. Think you can handle that?'
'So far all I've seen you doing is sitting on your duff drinking coffee. It might be rough, but I think I can swing it.'
He was exasperating. She resisted the urge to stomp her feet in frustration and turned away. 'Just try to be more careful,' she called back over her shoulder.
If anything was broken, she'd do more than take it out of his check. She'd take it right out of his hide, and she'd revel in every second of it. Who did this guy think he was anyway? He was a pilot in the heart of the Amazonas Province, a washout who obviously couldn't cut the job back home in the States. And why was she allowing him to get to her anyway?
She glanced back only to find him still watching her with an amused expression. With considerable effort, she suppressed the urge to storm back down the pier and let him have a piece of her mind, and walked up the dirt road toward the hotel, where the others were already establishing a base of operations from which to launch their expedition.
An iron gate, flaking with rust, barred the thin walkway that separated the guest wing from the owner's abode. With a squeal of hinges, she opened it inward and passed into the courtyard. A flock of startled saffron finches exploded from the nests they'd chiseled into the building itself and swirled around the enclave. A rain of yellow and orange feathers and droplets of feces filled the air. She stayed safely beneath the overhang until she reached the first room, rapped a couple times with her knuckles, and entered.
Leo and the man who never left his side---Marcus Colton, if she remembered correctly---were still sitting at the small square table, poring over the stack of maps and conversing in hushed tones. Fat lot of good those fancy satellite maps would do them. The jungle grew and changed in unpredictable ways every single day, and it would determine their course, not the other way around. This region of the Western Andes had remained uncharted for a reason. No man was going to impose his will on the refined chaos that was the tropical cloud forest.
The flimsy door between the two rooms stood ajar. Beyond, the documentary director and her cameraman, neither of whom looked as though they'd been out of film school for more than a couple years, shared an animated conversation over steaming mugs and a platter of scrambled eggs dotted with red and green peppers. The four large men Leo had hired to carry their heavier equipment and act as her excavation crew lounged against the wall,
