Текст книги "Inca Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

    She peered through the crack down the hidden stairwell and said, "Good call, boss."

    Rummel paled as Gaskill silently swung the mirror wide open. He smiled broadly as he was swept by a wave of satisfaction. This was what Gaskill liked best about his job, the game of wits culminating in ultimate triumph over his antagonist.

    "Will you please lead the way, Mr. Rummel?"

    "The apartment below belongs to my attorney, Sidney Kammer," said Rummel, a shrewd gleam forming in his eyes. "Your warrant only authorizes you to search my penthouse."

    Gaskill groped about in his coat pocket for a moment before extracting a small box containing a bass plug, a fishing lure he had purchased the day before. He extended his hand and dropped the box down the stairs. "Forgive my clumsiness. I hope Mr. Kammer doesn't mind if I retrieve my property."

    "That's trespassing!" Rummel blurted.

    There was no reply. Followed by Pottle, the burly Customs agent was already descending the stairway, pausing only to retrieve his bass plug box. What he saw upon reaching the floor below took his breath away.

    Magnificent pre-Columbian artworks filled room after room of the apartment. Glass-enclosed Incan textiles hung from the ceilings. One entire room was devoted solely to ceremonial masks. Another held religious altars and burial urns. Others were filled with ornate headdresses, elaborately painted ceramics, and exotic sculptures. All doors in the apartment had been removed for easier access, the kitchen and bathrooms stripped of their sinks, cupboards and accessories to provide more space for the immense collection. Gaskill and Pottle stood overwhelmed by the spectacular array of antiquities. The quantity went far beyond what they expected.

    After the initial amazement faded, Gaskill rushed from room to room, searching for the piece de resistance of the collection. What he found was a shattered, empty glass case in the center of a room. Disillusionment flooded over him.

    "Mr. Rummel!" he shouted. "Come here!"

    Escorted by Swain, a thoroughly defeated and distraught Rummel shuffled slowly into the exhibition room. He froze in sudden horror as though one of the Inca battle lances on the wall had pierced his stomach. "It's gone!" he gasped. "The Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo is gone."

    Gaskill's face went tight and cold. The floor around the empty display case was flanked by a pile of furniture consisting of a couch, end tables, and two chairs. He looked from Pottle to Swain. "The movers," he rasped in a tone barely audible. "They've stolen the suit from right under our noses."

    "They left the building over an hour ago," said Swain tonelessly.

    Pottle looked dazed. "Too late to mount a search. They've already stashed the suit by now." Then he added, "If it isn't on an airplane flying out of the country."

    Gaskill sank into one of the chairs. "To have come so close," he murmured vacantly. "God forbid the suit won't be lost for another seventy-six years."

IN SEARCH OF THE CONCEPCION

October 15, 1998

Callao, Peru

    Peru's principal seaport, Callao, was founded by Francisco Pizarro in 1537 and quickly became the main shipping port for the gold and silver plundered from the Inca empire. Appropriately, the port itself was plundered by Francis Drake forty-one years later. Spain's conquest of Peru ended almost at the spot where it had begun. The last of the Spanish forces surrendered to Simon Bolivar at Callao in 1825, and Peru became a sovereign nation for the first time since the fall of the Incas. Now joined with Lima as one sprawling metropolitan area, the combined cities host a population of nearly 6.5 million.

    Situated on the west bank of the Andes along the lowlands, Callao and Lima have an annual rainfall of only 41 millimeters (1.5 inches), making the surrounding land area one of the earth's chilliest and driest deserts in the lower latitudes. Winter fog supports thin ground cover and mesquite and little else. The only water, besides excessive humidity, flows down several streams and the Rimac River from the Andes.

    After rounding the northern tip of San Lorenzo, the large offshore island that protects Callao's natural maritime shelter, Captain Stewart ordered slow speed as a launch came alongside the Deep Fathom and the harbor pilot jumped onto a boarding ladder and climbed on board. Once the pilot steered the ship safely inside the main channel, Captain Stewart took command of the bridge again and adroitly eased the big research ship to a stop beside the dock of the main passenger terminal. Under his watchful eye the mooring lines were slipped over big, rusty bollards. Then he shut down his automatic control system, rang his chief engineer, and told him that he was through with the engines.

    Everyone lining the ship's rail was surprised to see over a thousand people jamming the dock. Along with an armed military security force and a large contingent of police, TV news cameras and press photographers quickly began jockeying for position as the gangway was lowered. Beyond the news media stood a group of smiling government officials, and behind them the happily waving parents of the archaeology students.

    "Still no Dixieland band playing `Waiting for the Robert E. Lee,' " Pitt said, feigning a disappointed tone.

    "Nothing like a cheering populace to snap one out of depression," said Giordino, gazing at the unexpected reception.

    "I never expected so grand a turnout," murmured Shannon in awe. "I can't believe word spread so fast."

    Miles Rodgers lifted one of three cameras hung around his neck and began shooting. "Looks to me like half the Peruvian government turned out."

    The dock was filled with an air of excitement. Small children were waving Peruvian and American flags. A roar came from the crowd as the archaeology students climbed out on the bridge wing and began waving and shouting as they recognized their parents. Only Stewart looked uneasy.

    "My God, I hope they all don't expect to storm aboard my ship."

    "Too many boarders to repel." Giordino shrugged. "Better to haul down your flag and plead for mercy."

    "I told you my students came from influential families," said Shannon happily.

    Unnoticed by the crowd, a small man wearing glasses and carrying a briefcase expertly squeezed through the milling throng and slipped around the cordon of security guards. He bounded up the still-lowering gangway before anyone could stop him and leaped onto the deck with the elated expression of a running back who has just crossed a goal line. He approached Pitt and Giordino and grinned.

    "Why is it prudence and discretion are beyond your talents?"

    "We try not to fly in the face of public opinion," Pitt said before smiling broadly and embracing the little man. "Good to see you, Rudi."

    "Seems we can't get away from you," said Giordino warmly.

    Rudi Gunn, the deputy director of NUMA, shook Stewart's hand and was introduced to Shannon and Rodgers. "Will you excuse me if I borrow these two rogues before the welcoming ceremonies?" he asked graciously.

    Without waiting for an answer, he stepped through a hatch and walked down an alleyway with ease. Gunn had helped design the Deep Fathom and was very familiar with the ship's deck layout. He stopped before the doorway to the conference room, opened it and entered. He went directly to the head of a long table and fished through his briefcase for a yellow legal pad filled with notations as Pitt and Giordino settled into a pair of leather chairs.

    Though Giordino and Gunn were both short, they were as unalike as a gibbon and a bulldog. While Gunn was as slight as a girl, Giordino was a huge walking muscle. They also differed in brain power. Giordino was shrewd and street smart. Gunn was sheer genius. Number one in his class at the Naval Academy, and a former navy commander who could easily have ascended to a top staff job in the Navy Department, he preferred the underwater science of NUMA to the science of warfare. Extremely nearsighted, he peered through heavy hornrimmed glasses, but never missed the slightest movement within two hundred yards.

    Pitt was the first to speak. "Why the frenzy to send Al and me back to that rotten sinkhole to retrieve a body?"

    "The request came from U.S. Customs. They made an urgent appeal to Admiral Sandecker to borrow his best men."

    "And that includes you."

    "I could have begged off, claiming my present projects would grind to a stop without my presence. The admiral would not have hesitated to send someone else. But a canary let slip your little unauthorized mission to find a lost galleon in the wilds of Ecuador."

    "Hiram Yaeger," Pitt supplied. "I should have remembered you two are as close as Frank and Jesse James."

    "I couldn't resist dumping the routine of Washington to mix a little business with adventure, so I volunteered for the dirty job of briefing and joining you on the Customs project."

    `You mean you sold Sandecker a bill of goods and skipped town?" said Pitt.

    "Mercifully for everyone involved, he doesn't know about the hunt for the galleon. At least not yet."

    "He's not an easy man to fool," said Giordino seriously.

    Not for very long," added Pitt. "He's probably already on to you."

    Gunn waved a hand indifferently. "You two are on safe ground. Better me than some poor fool unfamiliar with your escapades. Anyone else in the NUMA bureaucracy might overestimate your abilities."

    Giordino made a surly face. "And we call him a friend?"

    "What can NUMA do for Customs that's so special?" asked Pitt.

    Gunn spread a sheaf of papers on the table. "The issue is complex but involves the plunder of ancient art."

    "Isn't that a little out of our line? Our business is underwater exploration and research."

    "Destruction for the purpose of looting underwater archaeological sites is our business," Gunn stated earnestly.

    "Where does recovering Dr. Miller's body enter the picture?"

    "Only the first step of our cooperation with Customs. The murder of a world-renowned anthropologist is the bedrock of their case. They suspect the killer is a highlevel member of an international looting syndicate, and they need proof for an indictment. They also hope to use the killer as a key to unlock the door leading to the masterminds of the entire theft and smuggling operation. As for the sacred well, Customs and Peruvian authorities believe a vast cache of artifacts was raised from the bottom and has already been shipped to black-market receiving stations around the world. Miller discovered the theft and was terminated to shut him up. They want us, you and Al in particular, to search the floor of the well for evidence."

    "And our plan to explore for the lost galleon?"

    "Complete the job on the well, and I'll authorize a small budget out of NUMA to fund your search. That's all I can promise."

    "And if the admiral shoots you down?" asked Giordino.

    Gunn shrugged. "He's my boss as well as yours. I'm an old navy man. I follow orders."

    "I'm old air force," Pitt replied. "I question them."

    "Worry about it when the time comes," said Giordino. "Let's get the sinkhole probe out of the way."

    Pitt took a deep breath and relaxed in his chair. "Might as well do something useful while Yaeger and Perlmutter conduct their research. They should have some solid leads by the time we stumble out of the jungle."

    "There is one more request from the Customs agents," said Gunn.

    "What the hell else do they have on their want list?" demanded Pitt roughly. "A dive orgy for souvenirs thrown off cruise ships by tourists afraid of Customs inspectors?"

    "Nothing so mundane," Gunn explained patiently. "They also insist that you return to the Pueblo de los Muertos."

    "They must think artifacts sitting in the rain qualify as underwater stolen goods," Giordino said with acidic humor.

    "The Customs people are in dire need of an inventory."

    "Of the artifacts in the temple?" Pitt asked incredulously. "Do they expect an indexed catalogue? There must be close to a thousand items stacked inside whatever is left of the temple after the mercenaries finished blowing it all to hell. They need archaeologists to sort through the hoard, not marine engineers."

    "The Peruvian Investigative Police have investigated and reported that most of the artifacts were removed from the temple soon after you escaped," explained Gunn. "International Customs agents need descriptions so they can identify the artifacts should they begin to show up at antique auctions, or in private collections, galleries, and museums in affluent first world countries. They hope that a return trip to the scene of the crime will jog your memories."

    "Events were moving too fast for a quick tally."

    Gunn nodded in understanding. "But certain objects must have stuck in your mind, especially the outstanding pieces. What about you, Al?"

    "I was busy prowling the ruins for a radio," said Giordino. "I didn't have time to examine the stuff."

    Pitt held his hands to his head and massaged his temples. "I might be able to recall fifteen or twenty items that stood out."

    "Can you sketch them?"

    "I'm a miserable artist, but I think I can draw reasonably accurate pictures. No need to visit the place again. I can just as well illustrate what I remember while lounging by a swimming pool at a resort hotel."

    "Sounds sensible to me," Giordino said cheerfully.

    "No," Gunn said, "it's not sensible. Your job goes much deeper. As much as it turns my stomach, you two middle-aged delinquents are Peruvian national heroes. Not only are you in demand with the Customs Service, the State Department wants a piece of you."

    Giordino stared at Pitt. "One more manifestation of Giordino's list of laws. Any man who volunteers for a rescue mission becomes a victim."

    "What does the State Department have to do with us making a round trip to the temple?" Pitt demanded.

    "Since the South American Free Trade Treaty, the petroleum and mining industries have been denationalized. Several American companies are currently completing negotiations to help Peru better exploit its natural resources. The country desperately needs foreign investment, and the money is ready to pour in. The catch is that labor unions and the opposition parties of the legislature are against foreign involvement in their economy. By saving the lives of sons and daughters of the local VIPs, you and Al indirectly influenced a number of votes."

    "All right, so we give a speech at the local Elks Club and accept a certificate of merit."

    "Fine as far as it goes," said Gunn. "But State Department experts and the Congressional Committee on Latin American Affairs think you both should hang around and make the dirty Yankees look good by helping to halt the looting of Peru's cultural heritage."

    "In other words, our esteemed government wants to milk our benevolent image for all it's worth," said Pitt stonily.

    "Something along those lines."

    "And Sandecker agreed to it."

    "Goes without saying," Gunn assured him. "The admiral never misses a chance to stroke Congress if it can lead to more funding for NUMA's future operations."

    "Who is going in with us?"

    "Dr. Alberto Ortiz from the National Institute of Culture in Chiclayo will supervise the archaeological team. He'll be assisted by Dr. Kelsey."

    "Without reliable protection we'll be asking for trouble."

    "The Peruvians have assured us they will send in a highly trained security force to control the valley."

    "But are they trustworthy? I don't want an encore by an army of rogue mercenaries."

    "Nor me," Giordino agreed firmly.

    Gunn made a helpless gesture. "I can only pass on what I was told."

    "We'll need better equipment than what we took in on our last trip."

    "Give me a list and I'll handle the logistics."

    Pitt turned to Giordino. "Do you get the distinct impression we've been had?"

    "As near as I can tell," said the stocky Italian, "this makes about four hundred and thirty-seven times."

    Pitt did not look forward to a repeat dive in the sinkhole. There was a haunted aura about it, something evil in its depths. The yawning cavity gaped in his mind as though it were the mouth of the devil. The imagery was so irrational that he tried to erase it from his mind, but the vision would not go away. It clung like the vague memory of a repugnant nightmare.

    Two days later, at about eight in the morning, preparations were completed for the dive to retrieve Doc Miller's body from the sacred well. As Pitt stared down at the surface slime of the sinkhole, all his apprehension evaporated. The loathsome cavity still looked as menacing as when he had first encountered it, but he had survived its deadly surge, climbed its sheer walls. Now that he knew its hidden secrets, it no longer held any threat. The first hurried, planned-on-the-spot rescue was quickly forgotten. This was now a state-of-the-art project.

    True to his word, Gunn had chartered two helicopters and scrounged the necessary gear for the job. One whole day was spent ferrying Dr. Kelsey and Miles Rodgers, the dive crew, and their equipment to the site and reestablishing the destroyed camp. Gunn was not known for running sloppy operations. There was no deadline, and he took the time to plan every step with precision. Nothing was left to chance.

    A fifty-man contingent from Peru's elite special security unit was already in place when Gunn's first helicopter landed. To the taller North Americans the South American men seemed small in stature. They had an almost gentle look on their faces, but they were a tough lot, hardened by years of fighting Shining Path guerrillas in the heavily forested mountain country and barren coastal deserts. They quickly set up defenses around the camp and sent patrols into the surrounding jungle.

    "Wish I was going with you," said Shannon from behind Pitt.

    He turned and smiled. "I can't imagine why. Retrieving a human body that's been decomposing in tropically heated soup is not what I call a fun experience."

    "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound cold-hearted." There was little expression of sorrow in her eyes. "I had the deepest admiration for Doc. But the archaeologist in me wants desperately to explore the bottom of the sacred pool."

    "Don't get your hopes up of finding a treasure in antiquities," Pitt consoled her. "You'd be disappointed. All I saw was an acre of silt with an old Spaniard growing out of it."

    "At least allow Miles to dive with you and make a photo record."

    "Why the rush?"

    "During the recovery, you and Al might disturb the bottom and move artifacts from their original positions."

    Pitt gazed at her through disbelieving eyes. "You consider that more important than showing respect for Doc Miller?"

    "Doc is dead," she said matter-of-factly. "Archaeology is an exacting science that deals with dead things. Doc taught that better than anyone. The slightest disturbance could alter significant findings."

    Pitt began to see a side of Shannon that was all business. "After Al and I bring up Miller's remains, you and your Miles can dive and retrieve artifacts to your heart's content. But mind you don't get sucked into the side cavern again."

    "Once is enough," she said with a tight smile. Then her expression turned to one of concern. "Be careful and don't take chances."

    Then she kissed him lightly on the cheek, turned and hurried off toward her tent.

    Dropping into the water went smoothly, thanks to a small crane and a motorized winch operated under the watchful eye of Rudi Gunn. When Pitt was about a meter above the water, he released the safety catch holding him on the end of the cable running to the winch. The upper, slime-laden level of the water was as tepid as expected but he did not recall it smelling quite so pungent. He floated lazily on his back, waiting for the cable to return topside before lowering Giordino.

    Pitt's full face mask was connected to a communications and safety line while Giordino dove free and unencumbered, relying on hand signals from Pitt for instructions. As soon as his diving buddy slid into the muck beside him, Pitt motioned downward, and they rolled forward and dove into the depths of the sinkhole. They stayed close to avoid becoming separated and losing sight of one another in the dismal murk before reaching the incredibly clear water 4 meters (13 feet) below the surface of the pool. The grayish brown of the bottom silt and rocks materialized out of the gloom and came up to meet them. They leveled off at 2 meters (6 feet), and Pitt made a motion to stop all movement. Carefully, so he didn't stir up a cloud of silt, he removed a stainless steel shaft that was attached to a reel of nylon cord and shoved it into a pocket of silt.

    "How are you doing?" Gunn's voice came over the earphones inside Pitt's face mask.

    "We've reached bottom and are beginning a circular search for the body," Pitt replied as he began unwinding the line.

    Pitt obtained bearings from his compass and began sweeping around the shaft that protruded from the silt, enlarging the search pattern while unreeling the line, as if following the path of a pinwheel. He slowly swam above the muck, scanning from side to side with Giordino following slightly to the side and rear of Pitt's fins. In the transparent liquid void they soon spotted the saponified remains of Doc Miller.

    In the few days since he had seen the body it had changed for the worse. Tiny pieces were missing from the exposed skin areas. Pitt was at a loss to explain this until he glimpsed a strange brightly speckled fish with luminous scales dart in and begin nibbling one of Doc's eyes. He brushed away the carnivorous fish, the size of a small trout, and wondered how it came to be stranded in a deep pool in the middle of a jungle.

    He gave a hand signal to Giordino who removed a rubberized body bag from a pack that was strapped to his chest above his weight belt. A decomposing body cannot be smelled underwater. That's what they say. Perhaps it was in their minds, but the smell of death seemed to flow through their breathing regulators as if their air tanks were contaminated with it. An impossibility, to be sure, but tell that to rescue teams who have seen the horror of long-immersed dead.

    They wasted no time in examining the body but moved as fast as their hands would let them, pulling the body bag over the corpse while trying not to stir up a cloud of silt. The silt did not cooperate, billowing up in a dense cloud, cutting off all visibility. They worked blind, carefully zipping up the bag, making sure no flesh protruded from the seam. When the grisly job was completed, Pitt reported to Gunn.

    "We have the body contained and are on our way up."

    "Acknowledged," Gunn replied. "We will lower a sling with a stretcher."

    Pitt grabbed Giordino's arm through the silt cloud, signaling for a mutual ascent. They began raising the remains of Doc Miller to the sunlight. After reaching the surface, they gently eased the body onto the stretcher and secured it with buckled straps. Then Pitt advised Gunn.

    "Ready for lift."

    As Pitt watched the stretcher rise toward the rim of the sinkhole, he sadly wished he had known the genuine Steve Miller instead of the imposter. The esteemed anthropologist had been murdered without knowing why. No hint was given by the scum that cut his throat. He never knew that his death was an unnecessary act by a sociopathic killer. He was simply a cast-off pawn in the high-stakes game of stolen art and antiquities.

    There was nothing more to be done. Their part of the body retrieval operation was finished. Pitt and Giordino could only float and wait for the winch to lower the cable again. Giordino looked over at Pitt expectantly and removed the breathing regulator from his mouth.

    We still have plenty of air, he wrote on a communications board. Why not poke around while we're waiting for the next elevator?

    To Pitt the suggestion struck a harmonious chord. Unable to remove his head mask and speak, he replied on his own communications board, Stay close to me and grab hold if struck by surge. Then he gestured downward. Giordino nodded and faithfully swam alongside as they jackknifed and kicked once more toward the floor of the sinkhole.

    The puzzle in Pitt's mind was the lack of artifacts in the silt. Bones, yes, there was an overabundance. But after probing the sinkhole's floor for half an hour, they found no sign of ancient artifacts. Nothing except the armor on the intact skeleton he had discovered on his first dive, and the dive gear Pitt had cast off before his climb out of the well. Two minutes was all it took to relocate the site. The bony hand was still raised, one finger pointing in the direction where Miller had lain.

    Pitt slowly drifted around the armor-encased Spaniard, examining every detail, occasionally glancing up and around the dim reaches of the sinkhole, alert to any disturbance in the silt that signaled the approach of the mysterious surge. He felt his every movement was followed from deep within the empty eye sockets of the skull. The teeth seemed frozen in a mocking grin, taunting and baiting him at the same time. The sunlight from above filtered through the slime and painted the bones a ghostly shade of green.

    Giordino floated nearby, observing Pitt with detached curiosity. He had no clue to what captivated his friend. The old bones held little fascination for Giordino. The remains of a five-hundred-year-old Spaniard conjured up nothing in his imagination, except possibly the eruption that would occur when Shannon Kelsey discovered that her precious archaeological site had been disturbed before she could investigate it.

    No such thoughts ran through Pitt's mind. He was beginning to sense that the skeleton did not belong here. He rubbed a finger lightly over the breastplate. A thin smudge of rust came away, revealing smooth, unpitted, uncorroded metal beneath. The leather straps that held the armor against the chest were incredibly well preserved. And so were the fasteners that joined the straps. They had the appearance of metal buckles on old shoes that had sat inside a trunk in an attic for one or two generations.

    He swam a few meters away from the skeleton and pulled a bone out of the silt, a tibia by the shape of it. He returned and held it against the Spaniard's protruding forearm and hand. The bone from the silt was much rougher and pitted as well as more deeply stained from the minerals in the water. The bony structure of the skeleton was smooth in comparison. Next he studied the teeth, which were in remarkably good condition. Pitt found caps on two molars, not gold but silver. Pitt was no expert on sixteenth-century dentistry, but he knew that Europeans didn't even begin to fill cavities and cap teeth until the late eighteenth century.

    "Rudi?"

    "I'm listening," answered Gunn.

    "Please send down a line. I want to lift something."

    "A line with a small weight attached to the end is on the way."

    "Try to drop it where you see our bubbles."

    "Will do." There was a pause, and then Gunn's voice came back over Pitt's earphones with a slight edge to it. "Your archaeologist lady is raising hell. She says you can't touch anything down there."

    "Pretend she's in Moline, Illinois, and drop the line."

    Gunn replied nervously. "She's making a terrible scene up here."

    Either drop the line or throw her over the edge," Pitt snapped obstinately.

    "Stand by."

    Moments later a small steel hook attached to a nylon line materialized through the green void and landed in the silt two meters away. Giordino effortlessly swam over, snagged the line with one hand, and returned. Then, with the finesse of a pickpocket delicately lifting a wallet, Pitt very carefully wrapped the loose end of the line around a strap holding the breastplate to the skeleton and cinched it with the hook. He stared at Giordino and made the thumbs-up gesture. Giordino nodded and was mildly surprised when Pitt released the line, allowing it to slacken and leaving the skeleton where it lay.

    They took turns being lifted out of the sinkhole. As the crane raised him by his safety line, Pitt looked down and vowed he would never again enter that odious slough. At the rim, Gunn was there to help swing him onto firm ground and remove his full face mask.

    "Thank God, you're back," he said. "That madwoman threatened to shoot off my testicles."

    Giordino laughed. "She learned that from Pitt. Just be thankful your name isn't Amaru."

    "What. . . what was that?"

    "Another story," said Pitt, inhaling the humid mountain air and enjoying every second of it.

    He was struggling out of his dive suit when Shannon stormed up to him like a wild grizzly who had her cubs stolen. "I warned you not to disturb any artifacts," she said firmly.

    Pitt looked at her for a long moment, his green eyes strangely soft and understanding. "There is nothing left to touch," he said finally. "Somebody beat you to it. Any artifacts that were in your sacred pool a month ago are gone. Only the bones of animals and sacrificial victims are left scattered on the bottom."

    Her face turned incredulous and the hazel eyes flew very wide. "Are you certain?"

    "Would you like proof?"

    "We have our own equipment. I'll dive into the pool and see for myself."

    "Not necessary," he advised.

    She turned and called to Miles Rodgers. "Let's get suited up."

    "You begin probing around in the silt and you will surely die," Pitt said, with all the emotion of a professor lecturing to a physics class.

    Maybe Shannon wasn't listening to Pitt, but Rodgers was. "I think we had better listen to what Dirk is saying."