Excavation (11 page)

But more than the breezes, the room's occupant struck Gil as the source of the room's coolness. It was the first time Gil had ever met his contact in person. The tall man sat in a cushioned rattan chair, facing Gil, his back to the open double doors. Dressed all in black, from shoes to buttoned shirt, the fellow sat with his legs casually crossed, a drink clinking with ice in one hand. From his burnished complexion, he was clearly of Spanish descent. Dark eyes stared at Gil, appraising him from under clipped black hair. A thin mustache also traced the man's upper lip. He did not smile. The only movement was a flick of the man's eyes toward the other chair in the room, indicating Gil should sit.

Still wearing his ripped and sweat-stained clothes, Gil felt like a peasant before royalty. He could not even manage to roil up a bit of righteous anger at the man's attitude. He sensed a vein of hardness in the man that Gil could never match, nor dare challenge. Gil forced his tongue to move. “I…I have what we talked about.”

The man merely nodded. “Then we need only discuss the price.”

Gil lowered himself slowly to the chair. He found himself perched just at the edge of the seat, not comfortable enough to lean back. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be done with this deal, no matter what the price. He longed to leave the chill of the room for the familiar swelter of the bustling town.

Gil could not even meet the other man's eyes. He found himself staring out the window at the town's church steeple, the thin white cross stark against the blue sky.

“Show me what you found,” the man said, his drink still clinking as he gently rocked his glass, drawing back Gil's attention.

“Yes, of course.” Swallowing the dry lump in his throat,
Gil fished out the dented chalice and placed it on the table between them. Rubies and emeralds flashed brightly against the gold setting. Gil felt a resurgence of his resolve as he eyed the jeweled dragon wrapped around the thick gold cup. “And…and there's more,” Gil said. “With enough men and the right tools, by week's end, I could have a hundred times as much.”

Ignoring Gil's words, the man lowered his drink to the table and reached to the Incan cup. He picked up the chalice, raised it to the sunlight, and examined its surface for an excruciatingly long time.

Gil's hands wrung in his lap as he waited. He stared at the dent along the cup's lip as the man studied the workmanship on the chalice. Gil feared such a blemish might significantly reduce the price. The fellow had insisted any artifacts be brought to him intact.

As the man finally lowered the cup back to the table, Gil dared meet his eyes. He saw only anger there.

“The dent…it…it was already there,” Gil stammered quickly.

The man stood silently and crossed to a small bar behind Gil. Gil listened as the man added more ice to his glass. He then stepped behind Gil.

Gil could not bring himself to twist around. He just stared at the treasure atop the table. “If you don't want it, I…I will not hold you to any obligation.”

Without turning, Gil knew the man leaned toward him. The small hairs on the nape of his neck quivered with the instinct of his cave-dwelling ancestors. Gil then felt the man's breath at his ear.

“It is only ordinary gold. Worthless.”

Sensing the danger too late, Gil's hand snapped toward the knife at his belt. His fingers found only an empty sheath. Before Gil could react, his head was yanked back by the hair; he saw his own knife gripped in the man's hand. He did not even have time to wonder how the the blade had been
snatched from his side. A flick of the man's wrist, and the dagger sliced open Gil's throat, a line of fire from ear to ear. Gil was tossed forward and fell to the floor as his blood spilled across the whitewashed planks.

Rolling to his back, Gil saw the man return to the bar for his abandoned drink while Gil choked on his own blood. “P…Please…” he gurgled out, one arm raised in supplication as the light in the room began to dim. The man ignored him.

Eyes filled with tears, Gil again turned to the open window and the bright crucifix in the blue sky.
Please, not like this
, he prayed silently. But he found no salvation there either.

 

Finished with his drink, the man eyed the still form of Guillermo Sala. The pool of blood appeared almost black against the white floor. He felt no satisfaction in the killing. The Chilean had served his purpose and was now more a risk than a benefit to his cause.

Sighing, he crossed the room, careful not to foul his polished shoes with blood. He retrieved the Incan treasure from the table and weighed it briefly, judging its worth once the gems had been pried free and the cup melted into a brick. It was not the discovery his group had hoped to find, but it would have to do. From Gil's description of the underground vault, there was still a chance of a more significant strike. Stepping back to the room's bed, he collected the small leather satchel and secured the cup inside.

He studied the room. It would be cleaned up by nightfall.

Satchel in hand, he left the room and its cool breezes for the moist heat of the narrow corridor and the stairs. Sweat quickly broke across his forehead. He ignored it. He had grown up in these moist highlands and was well-accustomed to the swelter. Born of mixed blood, Spanish and local Indian, he was a
mestizo
, a half-breed. Neither Spanish nor Quechan. Despite carrying this mark of dishonor among the
highland people, he had managed to fight his way to a place of respect.

Once through the hotel's small lobby, he crossed into the midday sunlight. The steps outside were blinding in the bright light. Shading his eyes against the glare, he worked his way down the steps and almost stumbled over an Indian woman and her babe near the foot of the stairs.

The woman, wearing a rough-spun tunic and shawl, was as startled by him as he excused himself. But she fell to her knees before him, snatching at his pant leg and raising her baby, wrapped in a brightly colored alpaca blanket, toward him. She beseeched him in her native Quecha.

He smiled benignly at her and nodded in answer. Placing his bag on the last step, he reached to his throat and slipped out his silver pectoral crucifix. It stood stark against his black raiment. He raised a hand over the babe's head and gave a quick benediction. Once done, he kissed the baby on the forehead, collected his bag, and continued down the village street toward his church, the steeple overhead guiding him home.

The small Indian woman called after him, “
Gracias!
Thank you, Friar Otera!”

 

In the darkness of the collapsed temple, time stretched. Maggie was sure entire days had passed, but if her watch was accurate, it was only the following morning, close to noon. They had been trapped for less than half a day.

Arms across her chest, Maggie studied the others as she stood a few paces down the main corridor. With his rifle slung over a shoulder, Sam stood by the rockfall, the walkie-talkie glued to his lips. Since dawn, the Texan had been in periodic contact with Philip, conserving the walkie-talkie's battery as much as possible but trying to aid their fellow student in his appraisal of the ruined site.

“No!” Sam yelled into the walkie-talkie. “The debris pile is all that is holding up this level of the dig. If you try to excavate the original shaft, you'll drop the rest on top of us.” A long pause where Sam listened to Philip's response. “Shit,
Philip! Listen to me! I'm down here. I can see how the support walls are leaning on the blockade of stone. You'll kill us. Find where those looters had been tunneling into the dig. That's the best chance.”

Sam shook his head at the walkie-talkie. “The bastard is spooked up there,” he told her. “He's looking for the quickest fix as usual.”

Maggie offered Sam a wan smile. Personally, she was looking for the quickest fix, too.

Ralph and Norman were huddled around their only light source, Denal's flashlight. Ralph held it for Sam to survey the destruction and the state of their crumbling roof. Norman had snapped a few photographs after the short naps they had managed overnight. He now stood with his camera hanging by a strap, clutched to his belly. If they survived this, Norman was going to produce some award-winning footage of their adventure. Still, from his pale face, Maggie was sure the photographer would gladly trade his Pulitzer for the chance to escape alive.

“Watch out!”

The call from behind startled Maggie. She froze, but a hand suddenly shoved her off her feet. She stumbled a couple steps forward just as a large slab of granite crashed to the stones behind her. The entire temple shook. Dust choked her for a few breaths.

Waving a hand, Maggie turned to see a dusty Denal crawling to his feet. The chunk of loosened rock stood between them. Maggie was dumbstruck by how close she had come to being crushed.

Sam was already beside her. “You need to keep an eye on the ceiling,” he admonished her.

“No feckin' kidding, Sam.” She turned to the boy as he clambered over the slab. Her voice softened with appreciation. “Thank you, Denal.”

He mumbled something in his native tongue, but he could not meet her eyes. If the light were better, Maggie was sure she'd find him blushing. She lifted his chin and kissed him
on the cheek. When she pulled away, his eyes had grown wider than saucers.

Maggie turned to spare Denal further embarrassment. “Sam, maybe we should retreat down another level.” She waved a hand to the fallen rock. “You're right about the instability of this area. We might be safer a little farther away.”

Sam considered her suggestion, taking off his Stetson and finger-combing his hair as he studied the ceiling. “Maybe we'd better.”

Ralph stepped forward, raising the light toward the ceiling. “Look how all the roof slabs are out of alignment.”

Maggie studied the roof. Ralph had keen eyes. Some of the square stones were tilted a few centimeters askew from the others, displaced by the explosion. As they watched, one of the stones shifted another centimeter.

Sam must have seen it, too. His voice was shaky. “Okay, everybody, down another floor.”

Ralph led the way with the flashlight.

Norman followed. “Right now, I'd love a large glass of lemonade, filled to the brim with ice.”

Sam nodded his head. “If you're taking orders, Norm, I'll take something with a bit of a head on it. Maybe a tall Corona in a frosted mug with a twist of lime.”

Maggie wiped the dust and sweat from her forehead as she followed. “In Ireland, we drink our pints warm…but right now, I'm even willin' to bow to your crass American custom of drinkin' it cold.”

Ralph laughed as they reached the ladder. “I doubt the Incas left us a cooler down there, but I'm willing to search.” Ralph waved his flashlight for Maggie to mount the ladder first while he lit the way.

Maggie's smile faded from her lips as she climbed away from Ralph's light and into the gloom of the next level. Their banter in the face of their predicament did little to fend off the true terror; the darkness beyond the brightness
was always there, reminding them how precarious their situation was.

As she awaited the others, she considered Ralph's last words. Just what
had
the Incas left them down there? What lay within the chamber beyond the sealed door, and what had happened to Gil's two companions?

By the time the others had regrouped at the foot of the ladder on the second level, Maggie's curiosity had been piqued. Also by focusing on these mysteries, her fear of being buried under fifty feet of collapsing temple could be somewhat allayed. If the anxiety grew too intense…

Maggie shook her head. She would not lose control again. She watched Sam climb down the ladder with a twinge of guilt. After her attack last night, she had not been totally honest with him. She had failed to explain that the onset of her “seizures” had begun after witnessing the death of Patrick Dugan in the roadside ditch in Belfast. Afterward, the doctors had not been able to find any physiological cause for her attacks, though the consensus was the seizures were most likely a form of severe panic. She shoved back the growing guilt. The details were not Sam's business. After the initial entrapment, she had come to grips with their situation. As long as she could keep herself distracted, she would be okay.

Nearby, Sam tried his walkie-talkie. The radio still worked, but the static was a bit worse this much deeper. He let Philip know about their repositioning.

Once he was done, Maggie crossed to Sam. She wet her lips. “I'd like to borrow your ultraviolet lamp.”

“What for?”

“I want to go see what damage Gil and the others did to the dig.”

“I can't let you go traipsing about on your own. We need to stick together.” He began to turn away.

She grabbed his shoulder. “It wasn't a request, Sam. I'm going. It'll only take a few minutes.”

Denal stood a few steps away. “I…I go with you, Miss Maggie.”

Sam faced them and seemed to recognize her determination. “Fine. But don't be gone longer than fifteen minutes. We need to conserve our light sources, and I don't want to be hunting you both down.”

Maggie nodded. “Thanks, Sam.”

“I'm coming with you two,” Norman said, snugging his camera around his shoulder.

Ralph also had a gleam of interest, but Sam squashed it. “The three of you go on. Ralph and I will go through this level with the flashlight and assess the structural integrity.” He dug his lamp out of his pocket and held it toward Maggie, but he did not release it without a final word of caution. “Fifteen minutes. Be careful.”

She heard the worry in his stern voice, and that dulled the annoyance in her own response. “I know, Sam,” she said softly, taking the Wood's lamp from him. “You needn't worry.”

He grinned, then returned to his walkie-talkie and ongoing argument with Philip.