Excavation

Joan straightened slightly, pondering these last two questions. Nanotechnology? She again pictured the nanobot’s crystalline shape and hooked appendage arms. If the young researcher was correct, what the hell was the purpose of this strange metal? Had Friar de Almagro long ago discovered the answer? Was this what terrified him?

Leaning over the desk to cover her subterfuge, Joan slipped out one of the two gold droplets. Regardless of the answer, she knew one thing for sure. The metal had terrified the mummified friar, and he had possibly hinted at a way to destroy it.

Joan rolled the gold tear across the oak tabletop. Now warmed, the metal was like a piece of soft putty. She had to handle it carefully. Using her pen, she scooped a tiny bit onto the pen’s tip and wiped it on the desktop. She had to be frugal. The test sample was about the size of a small ant.

Once done, she retrieved her cigarette, knocked off the ash, and lowered its glowing tip toward the metal. “Okay, Friar de Almagro. Let’s see if Prometheus is our salvation.”

Licking her lips, she touched the gold.

The reaction was not loud, no more than a firm cough, but the result was fierce. Joan’s arm was thrown back. The cigarette flew from her fingers. Woodsmoke curled into the air. Her own gasp of surprise was louder than the explosion. She waved a hand through the smoke. A hole had been blown clear through the oak desktop.

“My God,” she said, thanking her stars that she hadn’t used the entire teardrop of metal. It would have taken out the entire desk and probably the wall behind it.

She glanced to the door, listening for footsteps. No one had heard.

Grimly, she stood and stepped to the door. She touched the lock, a plan coming to mind. She fingered the remaining golden samples, weighing them, calculating. She must get word out – especially to Henry.

But did she have enough of the volatile metal to blast her way to freedom? Probably not… She stepped away from the door. She would bide her time until the right moment.

She must wait, be as patient as Friar de Almagro. It had taken him five hundred years to get his message out. Joan stared at the smoldering hole in the desk – but someone had finally heard him.

As the sun set, Henry waited while the large helicopter refueled at the jungle-fringed landing strip. The abbot’s crew of six men worked to load the final supplies into the cargo bay. Henry stood off to the side, at the edge of the dilapidated runway. Rotorwash scattered empty oil cans and trash across the hard-packed dirt strip. Nearby, in the shadow of a wooden shack, Abbot Ruiz, who had discarded his robes and stood dressed in a khaki safari outfit, argued with the pinched-face Chilean mechanic. It seemed the price of petrol was a heated debate.

Henry turned his back on them. Off to his left, two of the abbot’s armed acolytes stood guard over him, ensuring that he, a sixty-year-old professor, did not make a break for the jungle. But the guards were unnecessary. Even if he could disarm the guards and bolt, Henry knew he would not survive ten steps into that jungle.

Beyond the edge of the forest, Henry had caught flashes of sunlight on metal, guerrillas hidden from sight, protecting their investment. This weed-choked strip was clearly a base for drug and gun smugglers. Henry also noted the crates of Russian vodka stacked by the side of the shack. Black-market central, he judged.

He resigned himself to his fate. They had traveled all afternoon from Cuzco to this unmarked landing strip. From there, he estimated it would be a four-hour hop to another secret refueling stop near Machu Picchu, then another three to four hours to reach the ruins. They should arrive just as the sun rose tomorrow.

He had until then to devise a way to thwart the abbot’s group.

Henry recalled his brief contact with Philip Sykes. The student had clearly sounded relieved, but fear also traced his voice. Henry cursed himself for getting not only his own nephew into this jam, but all the other students, too. He had to find some way to protect them. But how?

A voice called out from near the helicopter. The tanks were topped and ready for the next leg of the journey.

“Finish loading!” Ruiz yelled back over the growl of the rotors. The abbot passed a fistful of bills to the tight-lipped Chilean. It seemed a price had been set.

Beside the helicopter, the last crates of excavation and demolition equipment still waited to be loaded. Among the gear, Henry noted four boxes with Cyrillic lettering burned into the wooden side planks. Clearly Russian contraband: grenades, AK-47 assault rifles, plastique. Lots of armament for an archaeological team, Henry thought sourly.