Pitt nodded and banked around the towering rock carving so he could make his approach into the wind blowing across the mountain from the west. He reduced speed, eased back the cyclic stick. The turquoise helicopter hovered a moment, flared out, and then settled onto the only open space on the stone summit of Cerro el Capirote.
Giordino was first out, carrying tie-down lines that he attached to the helicopter and wrapped around rock outcroppings. When he completed the operation, he moved in front of the cockpit and drew his hand across his throat. Pitt shut off the engine and the rotor blades wound down.
Rodgers jumped down and offered a hand to Shannon. She hit the ground and took off at a run over the uneven terrain toward the stone effigy. Pitt stepped from the helicopter last, but did not follow the others. He casually raised the binoculars and scanned the sky in the direction of the faint sound of an aircraft engine. The seaplane was only a silver speck against a dome of blue. The pilot had maintained an altitude of 2000 meters (6500 feet) in an attempt to remain unseen. But Pitt was not fooled. His intuition told him he was being tailed the instant he lifted off from the Alhambra. Spotting the enemy only confirmed his suspicions.
Before he joined the others already gathered around the stone beast, he took a moment and stepped to the edge of the craggy wall and stared down, thankful that he did not have to make the ascent. The unobstructed panorama of the desert was breathtaking. The October sun tinted the rocks and sand in vivid colors that turned drab during the hot summer. The waters of the Gulf sparkled to the south and the mountain ranges on both sides of the marshlands of the Laguna Salada rose majestically through a slight haze.
Satisfaction swelled within him. He had made a good call. The ancients had indeed selected an imposing spot to hide their treasure.
When he finally approached the huge stone beast, Shannon was making detailed measurements of the jaguar body while Rodgers busied himself shooting roll after roll of photos. Giordino appeared intent on searching around the pedestal for a trace of the entrance to the passageway leading down into the mountain.
"Does he have the proper pedigree?" Pitt asked.
"Definitely Chachapoyan influence," Shannon said, her face flushed with fervor. "An extraordinary example of their art." She stood back as if admiring a painting hanging in a gallery. "See how the motifs on the scales are exactingly duplicated. They're a perfect match for those on the sculpted beasts in the Pueblo de los Muertos."
"The technique is the same?"
"Almost identical."
"Then perhaps the same sculptor had a hand in carving this one."
"It's possible." Shannon raised her hand as high as she could reach and stroked the lower part of the serpent's scaled neck. "It wasn't uncommon for the Incas to recruit Chachapoyan stone carvers."
"The ancients must have had a strange sense of humor to create a god whose looks could sour milk."
"The legend is vague but it contends that a condor laid an egg that was eaten and vomited by a jaguar. A snake was hatched from the regurgitated egg and slithered into the sea where it grew fish scales. The rest of the mythological account says that because the beast was so ugly and shunned by the other gods who thrived in the sun, it lived underground where it eventually became the guardian of the dead."
"The original ugly duckling fairy tale."
"He's hideous," Shannon said solemnly, "and yet I can't help feeling a deep sadness for him. I don't know if I can explain it properly, but the stone seems to have a life of its own."
"I understand. I sense something more than cold stone too." Pitt stared down at one of the wings that had dropped off the body and shattered into several pieces. "Poor old guy. He looks like he's fallen on hard times."
Shannon nodded sadly at the graffiti and the gouges from bullet holes. "The pity is that local archaeologists never recognized the beast for what it is, a remarkable piece of artwork by two cultures that thrived thousands of kilometers from here--"
Pitt interrupted her by abruptly raising a hand for silence. "You hear something, a strange sound like someone crying?"
She cocked an ear and listened, then shook her head. "I only hear the shutter and automatic winding mechanism on Miles's camera."
The eerie sound Pitt thought he heard was gone. He grinned. "Probably the wind."
"Or those the Demonio del Muertos is guarding."
"I thought he guaranteed they rest in eternal peace."
Shannon smiled. "We know very little about Inca and Chachapoyan religious rites. Our stone friend here may not have been as benevolent as we assume."
Pitt left Shannon and Miles to their work and walked over to Giordino, who was tapping the rock around the beast's pedestal with a miner's pick. "See any hint of a passage?" Pitt asked.
"Not unless the ancients discovered a method for fusing rock," answered Giordino. "This big gargoyle is carved from an immense slab of solid granite that forms the core of the mountain. I can't find a telltale crack anywhere around the statue's base. If there's a passage, it has to be somewhere else on the mountain."
Pitt tilted his head, listening. "There it is again."
"You mean that banshee wail?"
"You heard it?" Pitt asked in surprise.
"I figured it was just wind whistling through the rocks."
"There isn't a whisper of wind."
A curious look crossed Giordino's face as he wetted one index finger with his tongue and tested the air. "You're right. Nary a stir."
"It's not a steady sound," said Pitt. "I only notice it at intervals."
"I picked up on that too. It comes like a puff of breath for about ten seconds and then fades for nearly a minute."
Pitt nodded happily. "Could it be we're describing a vent to a cavern?"
"Let's see if we can find it," Giordino suggested eagerly.
"Better it come to us." Pitt found a rock that seemed molded to his buttocks and settled in. He leisurely wiped a smudge from one lens of his sunglasses, dabbed his brow with a bandanna that hung from his pocket, then cupped his ears and began turning his head like a radar antenna.
Like clockwork, the strange wail came and went. Pitt waited until he heard three sequences. Then he motioned for Giordino to move along the north side of the peak. No reply was necessary, no words passed between them. They had been close friends since they were children and had maintained close contact during their years together in the Air Force. When Pitt joined NUMA at Admiral Sandecker's request twelve years ago, Giordino went with him. Over time they learned to respond to each other without needless talk.
Giordino moved down a steep slope for about 20 meters (65 feet) before stopping. He paused and listened while awaiting Pitt's next gesture. The dismal wail came stronger to him than it did to Pitt. But he knew that the sound reverberated off the boulders and was distorted. He didn't hesitate when Pitt motioned him away from where it sounded loudest and pointed to a spot where the side of the peak suddenly dropped off in a narrow chute 10 meters (33 feet) deep.
While Giordino was lying on his stomach surveying a way down to the bottom of the chute, Pitt came over, crouched beside him, and held out a hand, palm down.
The wail came again and Pitt nodded, his lips parting in a tight smile. "I can feel a draft. Something deep inside the mountain is causing air to be expelled from a vent."
"I'll get the rope and flashlight from the chopper," said Giordino, rising to his feet and trotting toward the aircraft. In two minutes he was back with Shannon and Miles.