“Oh, I came alone,” Trang Ho informed her cheerfully.
Manco eyed her in disbelief. “You followed us by yourself?”
“I always work alone.” She started slipping off her modest pack. “Excuse me. This is getting heavy.”
“How did you track us?” Blanco asked.
“Are you kidding, man? I’ll track a story anywhere. Besides, it was like following a bulldozer. And my people were raised in the fetid, steaming jungles of Southeast Asia.”
“Yeah, but you were raised in Canoga Park,” Carter reminded her.
“Well,” she said defensively, “L.A.’s kind of a jungle.”
“You want to help publicize our plans?” Manco inquired uncertainly.
“All that I can. In return for exclusive publication rights, of course.”
Ashwood raised her voice. “While you were taking notes did you happen to hear that these people plan to kill all of us?”
“Do you think I’d miss anything as dramatic as that?” Ho was clearly insulted. “That has nothing to do with me. With a little rewriting it will only add punch to my articles.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Carter began, trying to rise.
Da Rimini was studying the latest arrival to what was becoming a very crowded lost city. “You mean this, don’ you?”
“Certainly. As Jason Carter can attest, I have no morals whatsoever and my employers have less.” She smiled exuberantly. “If we did, our business wouldn’t exist.” She turned to Carter. “I am sorry, but look at it this way: think of the press you’ll get. People will forget all the lousy pictures you’ve made in the rush to immortalize you. I’ll personally see to it that whoever they cast in the film version of your life is a better actor than you are.”
“You’re not just going to watch them shoot us,” he declared uneasily.
“Of course I am. They have two very large automatic weapons. I have a little knife. What else can I do?”
“Then you’ll report them if you make it back to Lima,” Ashwood said.
“Why should I? You’ll already be dead. It would be a waste of a great story.”
“Justice would be served,” Fewick pointed out.
“I’m not in the business of serving justice,” Ho informed him. “I’m a reporter, for Buddha’s sake! If I were anything less than a total pragmatist I never would have been able to lift myself out of the stinking, crowded L.A. Vietnamese ghetto.”
“I heard that your father was vice-president of a major bank,” Carter said.
“Details.” She turned back to Manco. “I think your Incaworld is a terrific idea.”
No one had noticed that the three Indians, disgusted with what was taking place and disliking a crowd, had quietly picked up their few belongings and slipped away into the selva.
While Trang Ho followed Blanco Fernández and Da Rimini toward the nearest opening in the wall, Manco found himself a resting place and relaxed, cradling his rifle in his lap. Carter found himself watching the jungle. By this time he half expected someone to emerge in Trang Ho’s wake, but the passing hours brought forth only bird noises and the rustling sounds made by secretive, unseen creatures.
“I wonder if that big tom of yours hurt Macha,” he said.
“Moe’s not a vicious animal.” Fewick regarded the verdure. “Is yours spayed?”
“I’ve no idea, but I’d doubt it.”
“I never had the heart to have Moe neutered, so it is possible they are enjoying this sojourn more than we.”
“Anybody got any suggestions?” Ashwood murmured softly so that Manco Fernández would not overhear.
“There was a palo santo not far back along our trail,” Igor told them. “If one stood with his back to the tree, the ants would come out and eat through the ropes. Unfortunately they might also eat much of one’s hands before weakening the ropes sufficiently for one to break free.”
“Good suggestion,” Ashwood observed. “We’ll wait for you to get back.”
It was late afternoon when screams erupted from the vicinity of the third and farthest opening in the Inca wall.
“Cave-in?” Ashwood ventured hopefully.
Igor twisted to look. “I’m afraid not.”
Da Rimini and Blanco Fernández were running toward the campsite. Trang Ho followed, her half-frame camera working furiously. Even at a distance the glint of sunlight on metal was impossible to mistake.
Manco rose to stare. The prisoners tried to.
Blanco had slung his rifle. Now he passed the contents of his cupped palms to his brother. Hairpins, pieces of necklace, earrings, and household utensils tumbled to the ground, overflowing from Fernández’s hands.
Every one of them was fashioned of dull, yellow gold.
“That’s nothing.” Da Rimini’s expression was wild. “Look at this.” She unwrapped the towel from the object she was carrying. It caught the setting sun along with everyone’s breath.
The plate was half an inch thick and eighteen inches in diameter, solid gold, inscribed with designs and symbols inlaid with turquoise. The raised outer rim was lined with twenty-one emeralds, each the size of a silver dollar.
