“We have accumulated some dollars but not nearly enough,” Blanco added. “As you may know, there is a vast international black market for primitive art.”
“Oh no,” said Fewick, blithely disregarding his precarious position. “Any artifacts found here belong to the Peruvian government.”
“We will put them at the service of the Peruvian people,” Manco Fernández replied sharply. “The true Peruvian people. Los Indios. Some we will keep for future display and education, but we will sell what we must to raise the money we need for our great project.” He lifted his gaze to the ancient wall and its indecipherable petroglyphs.
“Paititi has been a legend for so long, it is the ideal place to make our beginning.”
“Beginning of what?” Igor asked.
Manco looked down at the guide. “Our dream, which is to promulgate our native heritage. To restore its influence throughout the modern world. To make it come alive for people everywhere, not just narrow-minded men who live in dry, dusty books.” He glanced disdainfully at the sullen Fewick.
“My brother and I,” he continued proudly, “have made a study of the success of American popular culture, which has spread itself to every corner of the globe. We have tried to learn the secrets of its success so that we may apply them to our own culture. Now we believe that we have learned enough to proceed. We have formulated an unbeatable plan … all that remains is to find a means of financing it.
“Not only will we spread our influence throughout the world, we will make money while doing so. This is our sacred trust.”
“Mind if I ask you a question?” Carter shifted his position on the hard ground. “Why do you call it Inca Cola if there’s no cola in it?”
Manco Fernández eyed him pityingly. “Do you know nothing of marketing strategy? And you call yourself an American. All the great soft drinks are named ‘something’ cola. What does it matter what it contains? All that is important is if people buy it or not.”
“What’s this ‘great project’?” Ashwood asked in spite of herself.
“A museum!” Fewick bestirred himself. “To showcase the great traditions of Inca culture, to display in a modern setting the grand achievements of your ancestors. Yes, I can understand, even sympathize with that.”
“A museum will be a part of the complex,” Manco admitted. “A small part. It is evident you too know nothing of marketing. Do you not study your own society?”
“Complex?” Carter said.
“We are going to build a vast park here on the site of Paititi. It will include a museum, sí. Also a part of the rainforest, preserved for all to see. Sanitized and cleansed of insects, naturally.” His gaze rose as he focused on his distant vision. “And rides, lots of rides. And shops, and theaters, and concession stands and fast-foot outlets!” His voice deepened with the sheer majesty of it.
“Shooting galleries where people can fire back at the hated conquistadores! An amphitheater where the festival of Inti Raymi can be performed every day. A selva water park! A petting zoo!
“Today Paititi, tomorrow Rio and Buenos Aires. Then on to the United States and Europe and Japan. It will be called”—his voice shook with emotion—“Incaworld!”
In the dazed silence that followed, Igor de Soto said softly, “Some of us prefer the selva the way it is.”
Manco regarded him pityingly. “Ah; un verdades loco. You are a crazy greenie. I might have guessed.”
“What makes you think you can get people to come to this sauna that bites, even if you put a roof over the whole thing and air-condition it?” Ashwood wanted to know.
Fernández wore the look of the calculatedly mad. “Marketing.”
“You’re crazy, all of you. Not that it matters. There ain’t no treasure here.”
“Shut up, old woman!” Da Rimini snapped at her.
Ashwood glared. “Don’t call me an old woman, she-weed. If my hands weren’t tied …”
Though Da Rimini had twenty years and plenty of pounds on Ashwood, Carter didn’t think he’d care to bet against his companion in a fair fight.
The Amazon, however, wasn’t interested in a fight of any kind. Not while her associates wielded automatic weapons.
“You can’t kill all of us,” Ashwood insisted.
Da Rimini feigned astonishment. “Why not? No one will find you out here. After we bury you the ants and other scavengers will reduce you to bones inside a week.”
“You know,” Carter said tersely, “you were a lousy date.”
She ignored him as she began unpacking their supplies. “You don’ mind if we use your tools, do you? They are just lying here doin’ nothing.” She hefted a flashlight and pick while Blanco Fernández unfolded a collapsible shovel.
“Incaworld!” A startled Manco whirled and aimed the muzzle of his gun in the direction of the unexpected shriek. Everyone else turned to look.
“Fabulous concept, truly real. Visionary!” A figure stepped out of the trees.
Carter slumped. Evidently a callous God intended to visit one final ignominy upon him.
“Wonderful idea!” Trang Ho advanced, holding her microcassette recorder out in front of her. She was barely sweating. “Marvelous!”
Da Rimini noted Carter’s reaction. “Who is this … person?” she asked warily.
“Her name’s Trang Ho,” Carter muttered. “She’s a free-lance journalist … and I use the term advisedly.”
Ignoring the AK-47, Ho thrust the recorder at Manco Fernández’s face. “Sir, would you tell my readers more about your fantastic plans!”
The gun muzzle dipped. “You are really interested, aren’t you?”
“Of course. You give me information, I give you a story.”
Fernández’s reply was interrupted by Da Rimini, who was studying the jungle from which the diminutive Vietnamese had emerged. “Where’s your guide? Where’s the rest of your party?”
