When his feet touched the water, he was surprised by how cold it was.
“I’m in. Hold me for a minute while I work on my breathing, and when I clap my hands, let the rope drop as fast as I can sink.”
“You’re the boss. Good luck.”
Drake filled his lungs, expanding them as far as he could, held his breath, and then forced more air in using his mouth. He exhaled loudly after ten seconds and repeated the process four times. On the fifth, he clapped, and began to sink as the tension on the rope vanished.
Once fully submerged he dropped less rapidly than he would have liked, and focused on keeping his heart rate slow so that he would consume minimal oxygen. His leg wound stung as he sank, and he mentally counted off ten seconds, then twenty, then thirty, as he continued to drift lower while clearing his ears every ten feet. The water grew colder as he plumbed the depths, and then at sixty seconds, his feet touched something.
Drake opened his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. He looked up and saw a faint glow from the surface — Spencer’s flashlight playing over the water. His bare feet rubbed against a sharp edge and he almost exhaled, but forced himself to remain calm and concentrated on turning so he could feel around with his hands.
His fingers sank into the muck at the bottom, which was slimy and thick, and grasped a shape that had the hard edges of metal. It was heavy, and when he tried to pull it free, it wouldn’t budge. He groped along next to it and grabbed the next shape, this one slimmer and smaller. He wrenched it from the mud, and even underwater he could tell it was extremely heavy. Holding it with his left arm, he reached down with his right and drew his knife, then carefully slipped it beneath the leather ties that secured the first breastplate to his chest and sliced upward. The copper plate slipped free and dropped to the bottom.
Drake repeated the process until he was free of the weight, and removed the helmet, leaving it to sink. He began kicking to the surface, his lungs starting to burn as he ascended, his muscles placing an instant demand for oxygen that wasn’t available. The statuette was harder to maneuver with than the copper breastplates had been. The light on the surface beckoned to him like a distant mirage, and he kicked with all his might, ignoring the searing pain from his brutalized calf as he neared the sweet relief of air.
When he broke the surface he gasped, splashing, gulping in as much oxygen as he could as he treaded water. Spencer’s head appeared at the rim and his voice echoed from the steep walls.
“Took you long enough.”
“You going to haul me up, or am I going for an endurance test here?”
The rope slid by him as Spencer wound it up. He felt his belt tighten, and then he was inching higher at a snail’s pace. When he reached the lip, he heaved the object he’d pulled from the bottom over the side and grappled for a hold, his arms shaking as he hoisted himself over the edge, cushioned by the glass-like facets of the emeralds as he lay on his back, breathing deeply, his vision blurry in the gloom. He turned his head and saw a deep orange glint in the dim light.
Spencer’s boots crunched against the hard stone floor.
“I’d say you hit the jackpot with that, Drake.”
Drake turned the statue over in his hands, a highly stylized llama cast from solid gold, eighteen inches tall, its expression a cross between a pout and a smile. “That was the smallest I felt down there. It must weigh thirty pounds.”
Spencer hefted it and set it back on the ground. “More like fifty.”
“What’s that worth, you reckon?”
“Just the gold alone, for melt value, is probably over a mil. As a historical artifact? Sky’s the limit. It’s priceless. A collector would probably pay five million, easy. I’ve never seen anything like it, even in a museum.”
“I’d say that should establish that we found the treasure, then.”
“Oh yeah.” Spencer grinned. “How was the swim?”
“Cold.”
“Don’t worry. You’re going to be so rich you can afford to have your blood heated by burning hundred-dollar bills.”
“Still got to pull off some pretty big stunts to get paid, though.”
Spencer eyed the llama again and shrugged. “Like I said. Now that we know we hit the mother lode, I’ll carry the heavy end of the log.” He paused. “But this still doesn’t solve your CIA problem.”
Drake coughed and then smiled.
“Our CIA problem.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Spencer and Drake moved Allie and the rest of the camp just inside the cavern mouth, seeing no reason to pitch tents outside as yet more rain drizzled at the opening. The three of them sat out of the rain and dined on a celebratory slab of fish Spencer returned with on the end of his spear after a twenty-minute hiatus. They sat with full stomachs, watching the last of the day’s light drain from the ashen sky, minds racing over the successful conclusion of the quest of a lifetime. Drake had changed his dressing and was relieved to see that he was still clear of infection, and decided that he might just make it after all. Allie’s shoulder looked battered but was also free of the redness and puffiness that would have signaled a problem, for which they were all grateful.
“You think the ore is down there with all the gold?” Spencer asked, his AK lying next to him like a sleeping lover.
“Who knows? Although I have a hard time imagining Palenko dropping his most valuable possession into a well.”
“Then where do you think it is?” Allie asked.
Drake shook his head. “I have no idea. But if I were him, I’d have wanted it close at hand.”
“I agree he’d have kept it nearby. Maybe where he could stare at it when he felt down.”
“Assuming that it’s not so radioactive it would fry your skin off,” Allie said.
Spencer frowned. “Did the CIA goons go into any detail about the ore’s properties?”
“No. Just that Palenko thought it could power or destroy the planet, depending on how it was put to use.”
“This from a guy who looked worse than Keith Richards,” Allie said.
“My guess is that it would have to be really radioactive, then, don’t you think?” Spencer asked.
Drake shrugged. “Could be. Or it could be that Palenko devised some process using it, like cold fusion. It’s all guesswork. The only thing that matters from our standpoint is that the CIA thinks it’s important.”
A surge in the downpour splattered against the wet blanket of leaves just beyond the entrance, the water running down the slight slope, away from the gap, the sound now as familiar as the sound of their own breathing. Spencer turned on his flashlight and leaned back against the cave wall after checking to ensure there were no critters nearby waiting to sting or bite him. Allie retired to her tent, and after giving her two more pills, Drake returned and sat next to him.
“So what are you going to do with all the money?” Spencer asked, his voice fatigued.
“I don’t know. What about you?”
“Depends on how much it is.”
“It’ll be a lot,” Drake assured him.
“I kind of figured when I saw the emeralds on the rim.”
“Yeah. Just those alone, you could retire on.”
Spencer laughed. “Maybe I’ll buy an island someplace quiet.”
“If it isn’t quiet before you buy it, you can make it that way after.”
“But no white mud smeared all over me.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
They both chuckled, and Drake patted his rifle. “You sleep. I’ll take the first watch. No way I’m getting any rest after today.”
“Is it because you’ve got a few thousand dead Incas watching your back?”