“Buenos dias,”‘ he said.
Steve reached into the backseat and shook his hand. “Hilda found you, I see,” he said. “Ricardo, this is Rebecca MacCrimmon, Rebecca, this is Dr. Ricardo Ramos.” We smiled at each other. I liked him immediately. “Did Hilda give you the details?”
“Some.” Ramos looked at his watch. “Let’s go get a coffee. The INC office doesn’t open until nine-thirty. You can fill me in, in the meantime.”
We found a little chifa and got some coffee, and for Steve and me, toast with marmalade. Steve told Ramos all about his visitations from Arturo. Ramos didn’t seem to find anything unusual in an archaeologist dealing with a huaquero, I noticed. Then Steve unfolded a map and spread it out on the table. “Hacienda,” he said, stabbing his finger on the map. “Current site.” He pointed again. “And here, the new site. Arturo says the locals call it Cerro de las Ruinas.”
Cerro de las Ruinas, hill of ruins. Steve pulled an aerial photograph out of his briefcase. “Let’s have a closer look,” he said. “This was taken recently, about two months ago.” We all peered at the aerial photograph. I could follow the riverbed, and soon found the hacienda and the site we were currently working on. Where Cerro de las Ruinas was concerned, we had to do some searching.
“Got it!” Ramos exclaimed finally. “Right here,” he said, pointing. I looked at the spot he was indicating. I could make out the trees quite easily, and then, right beside them, a shadow that indicated there might be a wall. On one side of the wall, shaded by the trees, there was a dark outline that Ramos said was a hill. It was difficult for me to make it out, but they had the training, I didn’t, so I just tried to get my bearings. A little farther along, on the other side of the wall, I could see the roofs of some little huts. The commune, I thought suddenly. So Guerra was Puma’s farmer, the fellow he thought was building a wall between himself and the commune. Presumably it wasn’t having a commune in his backyard that was bothering Guerra so much. It was the prospect of anyone at all nearby seeing him hauling treasures out of the ground.
“So what do you think?” Steve asked.
“Well,” Ramos said, rubbing the stubble on his chin, “it’s hard to be certain there’s anything worthwhile there from this photograph. On the other hand, you’re right about the Guerra family. I certainly wouldn’t mind being a burr in their saddle for a change, instead of the other way around.” He paused, then shrugged. “Let’s go for it!” he said. Steve grinned.
“We’ll have to go for the preemptive strike,” Ramos added. “With the Guerras, one whisper about this, and they’ll have the whole family out digging the place up and destroying everything in their path before we can get there.”
“So let’s go, then,” said Steve, looking at his watch.
At 9:30 the two men disappeared into the INC offices, and I was left to mind the truck.
About an hour later the two men emerged. “Let’s roll,” Steve said, getting behind the wheel. “The airport. We’re going to Lima! The people here are calling ahead. They’ll see us as soon as we can get there.” I could sense his excitement.
At the airport, I saw them right to the gate. There was a flight already boarding.
“Head back for Campina Vieja, will you, and tell Hilda. I’ll get a message to you sometime tonight via Montero. If it’s a no, then I’ll make my own way back from Trujillo on the bus. If it’s a yes, time will be of the essence, and I’ll need you to meet the plane, okay?” I nodded.
“Are you okay with this, really?” he asked.
“I am. I’ll stand by,” I replied.
“Don’t speak to anyone except Hilda, Ralph, or Tracey about this, will you?” he said.
“Of course not,” I said.
“You’re a gem!” he said, hugging me. “See you tomorrow one way or the other.” He turned toward the aircraft, but then turned back, and much to my surprise, hugged me again. I watched as the two men crossed the tarmac and went up the steps to the aircraft.
I drove carefully back to Campina Vieja, not wishing a run-in with the police for any reason. I went first to the site, and Hilda came over to the truck as soon as I pulled up, dust swirling. I told her what had happened.
“We’re trying to look nonchalant,” she said, irony *n her voice. “So no one will guess anything’s up, not even the students. We’ve told them that Steve had to go to Trujillo on business, so you drove him, and that Ralph and I are filling in for him for the day. I took Ines into the market this morning, but I’ll leave it to you to pick her up as usual. Don’t say anything at dinner while Pablo’s there, will you?”
I could feel myself getting caught up in the excitement. It was almost impossible to avoid. All this secrecy and plotting, the rush to Trujillo. Tracey, for some reason, wasn’t looking as interested as I would have expected; in fact she was a little withdrawn. I wondered whether the hug from Steve meant all was not well with the two of them. The rest of us could barely do justice to Ines’s meal of sopa and fish and brown sugar pudding while we waited.
Pablo and Ines eventually left for home, and as soon as they were gone, we got down to planning how we would approach closing down one site and moving to the next with the greatest of speed. The idea was to spring the credencial on Guerra before he knew what was happening. Superstitiously, we kept saying we’ll do this and that we get the credencial, as if planning for it might prevent it from happening.
“I think I hear a truck!” Ralph exclaimed, and we all strained to listen. The front door creaked open, and Lucho’s shuffling steps could be heard crossing the courtyard at the slowest pace imaginable. Tracey, I saw, had her fingers crossed. Lucho handed Hilda an envelope. “My uncle sent me over with this,” he said.
We all stared at the envelope, Hilda included, for a moment or two. I felt like an actor at the Academy Awards. Then she ripped it open, scanned it quickly, and raised her fist in triumph.
“We’re on the move!” she exclaimed. A spontaneous roar of approval erupted from our lips.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. There were so many things to think about: the next day’s plans, of course, but also the arrival in town of a known buyer of antiquities. After a few hours’ tossing and turning, and reaching no conclusions, I crept quietly down the stairs, shoes in hand, and eased my way out the door. It was still dark, about 5:30 in the morning. As quickly and as quietly as I could, I started the truck, threw it into gear, and swung it around to head out. As I did so, the beam caught Hilda in her upstairs window, her arm raised as if in a benediction, a curious sort of blessing. I gunned the engine. Operation Atahualpa was under way.
12
Did he hear it? The soft swish of the sand as it began its descent, slowly, first a trickle, then faster and faster, filling the void. Did he turn from his work at the sound, now a soft rumble, to see his fate sealed, or, dazzled by what he had found, did he work on, oblivious of what was to befall him? Did he scrabble at it, not comprehending at first, thinking that with a few short strokes he’d be free? Or trapped, did he curse fate, as the air slowly ebbed away?
I’d gassed up the truck in town on my way back to the site the previous day, so, throwing caution to the winds, I just floored it, trimming a full twenty minutes off the drive to Trujillo. By 8:10 I was at the gate, impatiently scanning the skies for the incoming aircraft. Steve and Ricardo were on standby for the flight, so I wasn’t sure they’d made it. If they hadn’t, I was to wait there until they did. The flight was a few minutes late, but as soon as the steps were rolled up and the door opened, Steve and Ricardo, who’d maneuvered themselves to the front of the plane, bolted down the steps and across the tarmac.