Текст книги "Inca Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

    The man sitting at the table rose from his chair, came forward and embraced Vincente. "Pedro, always a delight to see you."

    "Joseph, old friend, you don't know how much I look forward to our little encounters."

    "Believe me when I say I'd rather deal with an honorable man like you than all my other clients put together."

    Vincente grinned. "Fattening the lamb with flattery before the slaughter?"

    Zolar laughed easily. "No, no, not until we've had a few glasses of good champagne to make you mellow."

    Vincente followed Joseph Zolar under the awning and sat down as a young Latin American serving girl poured the champagne and offered hors d'oeuvres. "Have you brought choice merchandise for me?"

    "Here's to a mutual transaction that profits good friends," Zolar said as they clinked glasses. Then he nodded. "I have personally selected for your consideration the rarest of rare artifacts from the Incas of Peru. I've also brought extremely valuable religious objects from American Southwest Indians. I guarantee objects that have just arrived from the Andes will lift your matchless collection of pre-Columbian art above that of any museum in the world."

    "I'm anxious to see them."

    "My staff has them displayed inside the tent for your pleasure," said Zolar.

    People who begin to collect scarce and uncommon objects soon become addicts, enslaved by their need to acquire and accumulate what no one else can own. Pedro Vincente was one of the brotherhood who was driven constantly to expand his collection, one that few people knew existed. He was also one of the lucky ones who possessed secret, untaxed funds that could be laundered to satisfy his craving.

    Vincente had purchased 70 percent of his cherished collectibles from Zolar over twenty years. It did not bother him in the least that he often paid five or ten times the true value of the objects, especially since most of them were stolen goods. The relationship was advantageous to both. Vincente laundered his drug money, and Zolar used the cash to secretly purchase and expand his ever-increasing inventory of illegal art.

    "What makes the Andean artifacts so valuable?" asked Vincente, as they finished off a second glass of champagne.

    "They are Chachapoyan."

    "I've never seen Chachapoyan artwork."

    "Few have," replied Zolar. "What you are about to view was recently excavated from the lost City of the Dead high in the Andes."

    "I hope you're not about to show me a few potsherds and burial urns," said Vincente, his anticipation beginning to dwindle. "No authentic Chachapoyan artifacts have ever come on the market."

    Zolar swept back the tent flap with a dramatic flourish. "Feast your eyes on the greatest collection of Chachapoyan art ever assembled."

    In his unbridled excitement, Vincente did not notice a small glass case on a stand in one corner of the tent. He walked directly to three long tables with black velvet coverings set up in the shape of a horseshoe. One side table held only textiles, the other ceramics. The center table was set up like an exhibit in a Fifth Avenue jewelry store. The extensive array of precious handcrafted splendor stunned Vincente. He had never seen so many pre-Columbian antiquities so rich in rarity and beauty displayed in one place.

    "This is unbelievable!" he gasped. "You have truly outdone yourself."

    "No dealer anywhere has ever had his hands on such masterworks."

    Vincente went from piece to piece, touching and examining each with a critical eye. Just to feel the embroidered textiles and gold ornaments with their gemstones took Vincente's breath away. It seemed utterly incongruous that such a hoard of wealth was sitting in a corn field in Kansas. At last he finally murmured in awe, "So this is Chachapoyan art."

    "Every piece original and fully authenticated."

    "These treasures all came from graves?"

    "Yes, tombs of royalty and the wealthy."

    "Magnificent."

    "See anything you like?" Zolar asked facetiously.

    "Is there more?" asked Vincente as the excitement wore off and he began to turn his mind toward acquisition.

    "What you see is everything I have that is Chachapoyan."

    "You're not holding back any major pieces?"

    "Absolutely not," Zolar said with righteous resentment. "You have first crack at the entire collection. I will not sell it piecemeal. I don't have to tell you, my friend, there are five other collectors waiting in the wings for such an opportunity."

    "I'll give you four million dollars for the lot."

    "I appreciate the richness of your initial offer. But you know me well enough to understand I never haggle. There is one price, and one price only."

    "Which is?"

    "Six million."

    Vincente cleared several artifacts, making an open space on one table. He opened the briefcases side by side, one at a time. All were filled with closely packed stacks of high denomination bills. "I only brought five million."

    Zolar was not fooled for an instant. "A great pity I have to pass. I can't think of anyone I'd rather have sold the collection to."

    "But I am your best customer," complained Vincente.

    "I can't deny that," said Zolar. "We are like brothers. I am the only man who knows of your secret activities, and you are the only one outside my family who knows mine. Why do you put me through this ordeal every time we deal? You should know better by now."

    Suddenly Vincente laughed and gave a typically Latin shrug. "What is the use? You know I have more money than I can ever spend. Having the artifacts in my possession makes me a happy man. Forgive my bargaining habits. Paying retail was never a tradition in my family."

    "Your reserve supply of cash is still in your aircraft, of course."

    Without a word, Vincente exited the tent and returned in a few minutes with the fourth briefcase. He set it beside the others and opened it. "Six million, five hundred thousand. You said you have some rare religious objects from the American Southwest. Are they included too?"

    "For the extra five hundred thousand you can have them," answered Zolar. "You'll find the Indian religious idols under the glass case in the corner."

    Vincente walked over and removed the glass dust cover. He stared at the strangely shaped gnarled figures. These were no ordinary ceremonial idols. Although they looked as if they had been carved and painted by a young child, he was aware of their significance from long experience of collecting objects from the American Southwest.

    "Hopi?" he asked.

    "No, Montolo. Very old. Very important in their ceremonial rituals."

    Vincente reached down and began to pick one up for a closer look. His heart skipped the next three beats and he felt an icy shroud fall over him. The fingers of his hand did not feel as if they came in contact with the hardened root of a long-dead cottonwood tree. The idol felt more like the soft flesh of a woman's arm. Vincente could have sworn he heard it utter an audible moan.

    "Did you hear that?" he asked, thrusting the idol back in the case as if it had burned his hand.

    Zolar peered at him questioningly. "I didn't hear anything."

    Vincente looked like a man having a nightmare. "Please, my friend, let us finish our business, and then you must leave. I do not want these idols on my property."

    "Does that mean you don't wish to buy them?" Zolar asked, surprised.

    No, no. Spirits are alive in those idols. I can feel their presence."

    "Superstitious nonsense."

    Vincente grasped Zolar by the shoulders, his eyes pleading. "Destroy them," he begged. "Destroy them or they will surely destroy you."

    Under an Indian summer sun, two hundred prime examples of automotive builders' art sat on the green grass of East Potomac Park and glittered like spangles under a theatrical spotlight.

    Staged for people who appreciated the timeless beauty and exacting craftsmanship of coach-built automobiles, and those who simply had a love affair with old cars, the annual Capital Concours de Beaux Moteurcar was primarily a benefit to raise money for child abuse treatment centers around metropolitan Washington. During the weekend the event was held, fifty thousand enthusiastic old-car buffs swarmed into the park to gaze lovingly at the Duesenbergs, Auburns, Cords, Bugattis, and Packards, products of automakers long since gone.

    The atmosphere was heavy with nostalgia. The crowds that strolled the exhibit area and admired the immaculate design and flawless detailing could but wonder about an era and lifestyle when the well-to-do ordered a chassis and engine from a factory and then had the body custom built to their own particular tastes. The younger onlookers dreamed of owning an exotic car someday while those over the age of sixty-five fondly recalled seeing them driven through the towns and cities of their youth.

    The cars were classified by year, body style, and country of origin. Trophies were awarded to the best of their class and plaques to the runners-up. "Best of show" was the most coveted award. A few of the wealthier owners spent hundreds of thousands of dollars restoring their pride and joy to a level of perfection far beyond the car's original condition on the day it rolled out of the factory.

    Unlike the more conservatively dressed owners of other cars, Pitt sat in an old-fashioned canvas lawn chair wearing a flowered Hawaiian aloha shirt, white shorts, and sandals. Behind him stood a gleaming, dark blue 1936 Pierce Arrow berline (sedan body with a divider window) that was hitched to a 1936 Pierce Arrow Travelodge house trailer painted a matching color.

    In between answering questions from passersby about the car and trailer, he had his nose buried in a thick boater's guide to the Sea of Cortez. Occasionally he jotted notes on a long pad of legal notepaper, yellow with blue-ruled lines. None of the islands listed and illustrated in the guide matched the steeply sided slopes of the monolithic outcropping that Yaeger had gleaned out of the Drake quipu. Only a few showed sheer walls. A number of them inclined sharply from the surrounding water, but instead of rising in the shape of a Chinese hat or a Mexican sombrero, they flattened out into mesas.

    Giordino, wearing baggy khaki shorts that dropped to just above his knees and a T-shirt advertising Alkali Sam's Tequila, approached the Pierce Arrow through the crowd. He was accompanied by Loren, who looked sensational in a turquoise jumpsuit. She was carrying a picnic basket while Giordino balanced an ice chest on one shoulder.

    I hope you're hungry," she said brightly to Pitt. "We bought half ownership in a delicatessen."

    "What she really means," Giordino sighed as he set the ice chest on the grass, "is we loaded up on enough food to feed a crew of lumberjacks."

    Pitt rolled forward out of the lawn chair and stared at a sentence printed across Giordino's shirt. "What does that say about Alkali Sam's Tequila?"

    "If your eyes are still open," Giordino recited, "it ain't Alkali Sam's."

    Pitt laughed and pointed toward the open door of the sixty-two-year-old house trailer. "Why don't we step into my mobile palace and get out of the sun?"

    Giordino hoisted the ice chest, carried it inside, and set it on a kitchen counter. Loren followed and began spreading the contents of the picnic basket across the table of a booth that could be made into a bed. "For something built during the Depression," she said, gazing at the wooden interior with leaded glass windows in the cupboards, "it looks surprisingly modern."

    "Pierce Arrow was ahead of its time," Pitt explained. "They went into the travel trailer business to supplement dwindling profits from the sales of their cars. After two years, they quit. The Depression killed them. They manufactured three models, one longer and one shorter than this one. Except for updating the stove and the refrigerator, I restored it to original condition."

    "I've got Corona, Coors, or Cheurlin," said Giordino. "Name your poison."

    "What kind of beer is Cheurlin?" asked Loren.

    "Domaine Cheurlin Extra Dry is a brand name for a bubbly. I bought it in Elephant Butte."

    "A champagne from where?"

    "New Mexico," Pitt answered. "An excellent sparkling wine. Al and I stumbled onto the winery during a canoe trip down the Rio Grande."

    "Okay." Loren smiled, holding up a flute-stemmed glass. "Fill it up."

    Pitt smiled and nodded at the glass. "You cheated. You came prepared."

    "I've hung around you long enough to know your solemn secret." She fetched a second glass and passed it to him. "For a price I won't tell the world the big, dauntless daredevil of the dismal depths prefers champagne over beer."

    "I drink them both," Pitt protested.

    "If she tells the boys down at the local saloon," said Giordino in a serious tone, "you'll be laughed out of town."

    "What is it going to cost me?" Pitt asked, acting subdued.

    Loren gave him a very sexy look indeed. "We'll negotiate that little matter later tonight."

    Giordino nodded at the open Sea of Cortez boating book. "Find any likely prospects?"

    "Out of nearly a hundred islands in and around the Gulf that rise at least fifty meters above the sea, I've narrowed it down to two probables and four possibles. The rest don't fit the geological pattern."

    "All in the northern end?"

    Pitt nodded. "I didn't consider any below the twenty-eighth parallel."

    "Can I see where you're going to search?" asked Loren, as she laid out a variety of cold cuts, cheeses, smoked fish, a loaf of sourdough bread, coleslaw, and down-home potato salad.

    Pitt walked to a closet, pulled out a long roll of paper and spread it on the kitchen counter. "An enhanced picture of the Gulf. I've circled the islands that come closest to matching Yaeger's translation of the quipu."

    Loren and Giordino put down their drinks and examined the photo, taken from a geophysical orbiting satellite, that revealed the upper reaches of the Sea of Cortez in astonishing detail. Pitt handed Loren a large magnifying glass.

    "The definition is unbelievable," said Loren, peering through the glass at the tiny islands.

    "See anything resembling a rock that doesn't look natural?" asked Giordino.

    "The enhancement is good, but not that good," answered Pitt.

    Loren hovered over the islands Pitt had circled. Then she looked up at him. "I assume you intend to make an aerial survey of the most promising sites?"

    "The next step in the process of elimination."

    "By plane?"

    "Helicopter."

    "Looks to me like a pretty large area to cover by helicopter," said Loren. "What do you use for a base?"

    "An old ferryboat."

    "A ferry?" Loren said, surprised.

    "Actually a car/passenger ferry that originally plied San Francisco Bay until 1957. She was later sold and used until 1962 by the Mexicans from Guaymas across the Gulf to Santa Rosalia. Then she was taken out of service. Rudi Gunn chartered her for a song."

    "We have the admiral to thank," Giordino grunted. "He's tighter than the lid on a rusty pickle jar."

    "1962?" Loren muttered, shaking her head. "That was thirty-six years ago. She's either a derelict by now or in a museum."

    "According to Rudi she's still used as a work boat," said Pitt, "and has a top deck large enough to accommodate a helicopter. He assures me that she'll make a good platform to launch reconnaissance flights."

    "When search operations cease with daylight," Giordino continued to explain, "the ferry will cruise overnight to the next range of islands on Dirk's survey list. This approach will save us a considerable amount of flight time."

    Loren handed Pitt a plate and silverware. "Sounds like you've got everything pretty well under control. What happens when you find what looks like a promising treasure site?"

    "We'll worry about putting together an excavation operation after we study the geology of the island," Pitt answered.

    "Help yourself to the feast," said Loren.

    Giordino wasted no time. He began building a sandwich of monumental proportions. "You lay out a good spread, lady."

    "Beats slaving over a hot stove." Loren laughed. "What about permits? You can't go running around digging for treasure in Mexico without permission from government authorities.

    Pitt laid a hefty portion of mortadella on a slice of sourdough bread. "Admiral Sandecker thought it best to wait. We don't want to advertise our objective. If word got out that we had a line on the biggest bonanza in history, a thousand treasure hunters would descend on us like locusts. Mexican officials would throw us out of the country in a mad grab to keep the hoard for their own government. And Congress would give NUMA hell for spending American tax dollars on a treasure hunt in another country. No, the quieter, the better."

    "We can't afford to be shot down before we've had half a chance of making the find," said Giordino in an unusual display of seriousness.

    Loren was silent while she ladled a spoonful of potato salad onto her plate, then asked, "Why don't you have someone on your team as insurance in the event local Mexican officials become suspicious and start asking questions?"

    Pitt looked at her. "You mean a public relations expert?"

    No, a bona fide, card-carrying member of the United States Congress."

    Pitt stared into those sensual violet eyes. "You?"

    "Why not? The Speaker of the House has called for a recess next week. My aides can cover for me. I'd love to get out of Washington for a few days and see a piece of Mexico."

    "Frankly," said Giordino, "I think it's a stellar concept." He gave Loren a wink and a toothy smile. "Dirk is always more congenial when you're around."

    Pitt put his arm around Loren. "If something should go wrong, if this thing blows up in our faces while we're in foreign territory and you're along for the ride, the scandal could ruin your political career."

    She looked across the table at him brazenly. "So the voters throw me out on the streets. Then I'd have no choice but to marry you."

    "A fate worse than listening to a presidential speech," said Giordino, "but a good idea just the same."

    "Somehow I can't picture us walking down the aisle of the Washington Cathedral," Pitt said thoughtfully, "and then setting up housekeeping in some brick townhouse in Georgetown."

    Loren had hoped for a different reaction, but she knew that Pitt was no ordinary man. She recalled their first meeting at a lawn party nearly ten years before given by some forgotten former secretary of environment. There was a magnetism that had drawn her to him. He was not handsome in the movie star sense, but there was a masculine, no-nonsense air about him that awakened a desire she hadn't experienced with other men. He was tall and lean. That helped. As a congresswoman she had known many wealthy and powerful men, several of them devilishly good-looking. But here was a man who wore the reputation of an adventurer comfortably and cared nothing for power or fame. And rightly so. He was the genuine article.

    There were no strings attached to their off-and-on ten-year affair. He had known other women, she had known other men, and yet their bond still held firm. Any thought of marriage had seemed remote. Each was already married to his or her job. But the years had mellowed their relationship, and as a woman Loren knew her biological clock did not have too many ticks left if she wished to have children.

    "It doesn't have to be like that," she said finally.

    He sensed her feeling. "No," he said affectionately, "we can make several major improvements."

    She gave him a peculiar look. "Are you proposing to me?"

    A quiet look deepened his green eyes. "Let's just say I was making a suggestion about things to come."

    "Can you put us closer to the dominant peak?" Sarason asked his brother Charles Oxley, who was at the controls of a small amphibious flying boat. "The crest of the lower one is too sharp for our requirements."

    "Do you see something?"

    Sarason peered through binoculars out a side window of the aircraft. "The island has definite possibilities, but it would help if I knew what sort of landmark to look for."

    Oxley banked the twin turboprop-engined Baffin CZ410 for a better view of Isla Danzante, a steep-sided, 5-square-kilometer (3-square-mile) rock formation that jutted 400 meters (1312 feet) above the Sea of Cortez just south of the popular resort town of Loreto. "Has the right look about it," he commented, staring down. "Two small beaches to land boats. The slopes are honeycombed with small caves. What do you say, brother?"

    Sarason turned and looked at the man in the rear passenger seat. "I say the esteemed Professor Moore is still holding out on us."

    "You'll be alerted to the proper site when I see it," Moore said curtly.

    "I say we throw the little bastard out the hatch and watch him try to fly," Sarason snapped harshly.

    Moore crossed his arms smugly. "You do, and you'll never find the treasure."

    "I'm getting damned sick of hearing that."

    "What about Isla Danzante?" asked Oxley. "Has it got the right features?"

    Moore snatched the binoculars from Sarason without asking and peered at the broken terrain running across the ridge of the island. After a few moments, he handed them back and relaxed in his seat with an iced shaker of martinis. "Not the one we're looking for," he proclaimed regally.

    Sarason clasped his hands tightly to prevent them from strangling Moore. After a few moments, he regained a degree of composure and turned the page of the same boater's guide that was being used by Pitt. "Next search point is Isla Carmen. Size, one hundred and fifty square kilometers. Length, thirty kilometers. Has several peaks rising over three hundred meters."

    "That's a pass," announced Moore. "Far too large."

    "Your speedy response is duly noted," Sarason muttered sarcastically. "After that we have Isla Cholla, a small flat-topped rock with a light tower and a few fishing huts."

    "Skip that one too," said Moore.

    "Okay, next up is Isla San Ildefonso, six miles offshore east of San Sebastian."

    "Size?"

    "About two and a half square kilometers. No beaches."

    "There has to be a beach," said Moore, taking another slug from his martini shaker. He swallowed the last few drops and his face took on an expression of deprivation. "The Incas could not have landed and unloaded their rafts without a beach."

    "After San Ildefonso we come to Bahia Coyote," said Sarason. "There we'll have a choice of six islands that are little more than huge rocks rising from the sea."

    Oxley eased the Baffin amphibian into a slow climb until he reached 700 meters (about 2300 feet). Then he set a course due north. Twenty-five minutes later the bay and the long peninsula that shield it from the Gulf came into view. Oxley descended and began circling the small rocky islands scattered around the entrance to the bay.

    "Isla Guapa and Isla Bargo are possibilities," observed Sarason. "They both rise sharply from the water and have small but open summits."

    Moore squirmed sideways in his seat and peered down. "They don't look promising to me–" He stopped talking and grabbed Sarason's binoculars again. "That island down there."

    "Which one?" queried Sarason irritably. "There are six of them."

    "The one that looks like a floating duck looking backward."

    "Isla Bargo. Fits the profile. Steep walls on three sides, rounded crest. There is also a small beach in the crook of the neck."

    "That's it," Moore said excitedly. "That must be it."

    Oxley was skeptical. "How can you be so sure?"

    A curious look crossed Moore's face for a fleeting instant. "A gut feeling, nothing more."

    Sarason snatched back the glasses and studied the island. "There, on the crown. It looks like something carved in the rock."

    "Don't pay any attention to that," said Moore, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead. "It doesn't mean a thing."

    Sarason was no fool. Could it be a signpost cut by the Incas to mark the passageway to the treasure, he wondered in silence.

    Moore sank back in his seat and said nothing.

    "I'll land and taxi to that little beach," said Oxley. "From the air, at least, it looks like a relatively easy climb to the summit."

    Sarason nodded. "Take her down."

    Oxley made two passes over the water off the island's beach, making certain there were no underwater reefs or rocks that could tear out the bottom of the aircraft. He came into the wind and settled the plane on the blue sea, striking the light swells and riding them like a speedboat across a choppy lake. The propellers flashed in the sun as they whipped sheets of spray over the wing.

    The plane quickly slowed from the drag of the water as Oxley eased back on the throttles, keeping just enough power to move the plane toward the beach. Forty-six meters (151 feet) from shore, he extended the wheels into the water. The tires soon touched and gripped the sandy shelf that sloped toward the island. Two minutes later the plane rose from a low surf and rolled onto the beach like a dripping duck.

    Two fishermen wandered over from a small driftwood shack and gawked at the aircraft as Oxley turned off the ignition switches and the propellers swung to a stop. The passenger door opened and Sarason stepped down to the white sand beach, followed by Moore and finally Oxley, who locked and secured the door and cargo hatch. As an added security measure, Samson generously paid the fishermen to guard the plane. Then they set off on a scarcely defined footpath leading to the top of the island.

    At first the trail was an easy hike but then it angled more steeply the closer they came to the summit. Gulls soared over them, squawking and staring down at the sweating humans through indifferent beady eyes. Their flight was majestic as they steered by the feathers in their tails, wings outstretched and motionless to catch the warm updrafts. One particularly curious bird swooped over Moore and splattered his shoulder.

    The anthropologist, appearing to suffer from the effects of alcohol and exertion, stared dumbly at his stained shirt, too tired to curse. Samson, a wide grin on his face, saluted the gull and climbed over a large rock blocking the trail. Then the blue sea came into view and he looked across the channel to the white sand beach of Playa el Coyote and the Sierra el Cardonal mountains beyond.

    Moore had stopped, gasping for air, sweat flowing freely. He looked on the verge of collapse when Oxley grabbed his hand and heaved him onto the flat top of the summit.

    "Didn't anybody ever tell you booze and rock climbing don't mix?"

    Moore ignored him. Then suddenly, the exhaustion washed away and he stiffened. His eyes squinted in drunken concentration. He brushed Oxley aside and stumbled toward a rock the size of a small automobile that was crudely carved in the shape of some animal. Like a drunk who had witnessed a vision, he staggered around the rock sculpture, his hands fluttering over the rough, uneven surface.

    "A dog," he gasped between labored breaths, "it's only a stupid dog."

    "Wrong," said Samson. "A coyote. The namesake of the bay. Superstitious fishermen carved it as a symbol to protect their crews and boats when they go to sea."

    "Why should an old rock carving interest you?" asked Oxley.

    "As an anthropologist, primitive sculptures can be a great source of knowledge."

    Samson was watching Moore, and for once his eyes were no longer filled with distaste. There was no question in his mind that the drunken professor had given away the key to the treasure's location.

    He could kill Moore now, Samson thought icily. Throw the little man over the edge of the island's west palisade into the surf that crashed on the rocks far below. And who would care? The body would probably drift out with the tide and become shark food. Any investigation by local Mexican authorities was doubtful.

    "You realize, of course, that we no longer require your services, don't you, Henry?" It was the first time Sarason had uttered Moore's given name, and there was an unpleasant familiarity about it.

    Moore shook his head and spoke with an icy composure that seemed unnatural under the circumstances. "You'll never do it without me."

    "A pathetic bluff," Samson sneered. "Now that we know we're searching for an island with a sculpture, an ancient one I presume, what more can you possibly contribute to the search?"

    Moore's drunkenness had seemingly melted away, and he abruptly appeared as sober as a judge. "A rock sculpture is only the first of several benchmarks the Incas erected. They all have to be interpreted."

    Samson smiled. It was a cold and evil smile. "You wouldn't lie to me now, would you, Henry? You wouldn't deceive my brother and me into thinking Isla Bargo isn't the treasure site so you can return later on your own and dig it up? I sincerely hope that little plot isn't running through your mind."

    Moore glared at him, simple dislike showing where there should have been fear. "Blow off the top of the island," he said with a shrug, "and see what it gets you. Level it to the waterline. You won't find an ounce of Huascar's treasure, not in a thousand years. Not without someone who knows the secrets of the markers."

    "He may be right," Oxley said quietly. "And if he's lying, we can return and excavate on our own. Either way, we win."

    Sarason smiled bleakly. He could read Henry Moore's thoughts. The anthropologist was playing for time, waiting and scheming to use the ultimate end of the search to somehow claim the riches for himself. But Samson was a schemer too and he had considered every option. At the moment he could see no avenue open for Moore to make a miraculous escape with tons of gold. Certainly not unless Moore had a plan that he had not yet fathomed.