“What a relief,” I said. “Do you know exactly where he goes in the mountains?”
“Secret,” she said, shaking her head. “A place with special power. Spoil it if others knew about it.”
“Of course,” I said. “He goes every new moon, does he? How long does he stay away?”
“Two or three days,” she replied. “He comes back much refreshed.”
I’ll bet he does, I thought. Knowing his tastes, I was willing to wager my last dollar—which I was getting close to, come to think of it, unless one counted my ill-gotten gains as a huaquero—that every month Manco Capac, using meditation as an excuse, probably headed off somewhere like the Lima Sheraton or its equivalent, and spent a couple of days swilling expensive wines and trying his luck at the slot machines in the lobby. Manco Capac, I was more and more convinced, was a fake.
I left Solar Flare preparing herself for the end of the world, and headed out for the highway, parking the truck in my by now regular space behind a little clump of trees and the old hut. The spot was near the old riverbed, and to my surprise, I could hear the rush of water in what earlier in the day had been the merest trickle of a stream. They must be right about rain up in the mountains, I remember thinking, as I turned away from the water and crossed the sands to the ruin.
It was very dark—the new moon, of course—and, not wanting to use my flashlight, I had to stop from time to time to make sure I was heading in the right direction. All was quiet at Paraiso when I got there. Carlos Montero was, as Hilda had said, nowhere to be seen. The padlock was still on the door to the ruin.
While the walls of the place were not particularly high, the days when I could haul myself up and over even a low wall were long gone, if indeed they’d ever existed. There were a couple of wooden crates, empty, I discovered, very close to the wall, near a place where the wall was lowest, its bricks fallen away in disrepair. There were many footprints there, I could see, as I beamed my flashlight about for a second or two. With a little effort, I moved the crates up against the wall at the lowest point and climbed up on them, then onto the top of the wall itself. On the other side there was a pile of old bricks that provided a step of sorts down.
I turned on my flashlight and swung it around the interior. It looked deserted: a couple of old pop cans, some empty paint cans, and the ubiquitous foam coffee cups were all I could see. In the center of the space was a very large square of woven bamboo matting, the type I’d seen used as fencing to enclose construction sites in town. The only thing that struck me as strange about it was that it looked very pristine and new, unlike the rest of the junk that had been tossed aside in the area.
Just to make sure, I lifted the corner of the matting. Underneath it was an extraordinary sight: a round hole about ten feet across that had around its perimeter man-made stairs, carved into the rock, that spiraled down into the earth. I aimed my light down into the hole, and saw that the steps snaked down about twenty-five feet. At the bottom was a faint glimmer of water. It looked to be a natural formation of some sort, almost a chute down into the ground, into which someone, a very long time ago, had carved steps.
I hesitated for a moment or two, not terribly comfortable with heights. The stairs were very narrow, open on the inside, so one false step would send me plummeting downward. Then I thought of Puma. The commune was within easy walking distance of this place. Had he, in his marijuana haze, come here? Perhaps the footprints outside the wall were his, and he’d got in the same way I had. Cities of gold you get to through cracks in the rocks, he’d said, the greatest treasure ever. I stuck my flashlight in my belt, directing the beam downward, and started my descent, pulling the woven matting back in its place over my head.
After one circuit of the perimeter on the spiral, I could no longer stand upright, but had to sit on the stairs and lower myself step by step, ducking under overhanging rock as I went. At last I stepped into the pool of water only a few inches deep at the bottom.
I was in a rock chamber not that much larger than the chute down which I had come, maybe fifteen feet in diameter, probably naturally formed by the action of water on limestone. To my right was a door, leading where I could not imagine. Against the wall to my left was a table covered in packing materials and three wooden crates, none of them yet sealed shut.
In all three crates were rows and rows of cresoles, the little pots found in tombs, each identical, made in the shape of a round man. All of them, as near as I could tell, were fakes, reproductions from the factory above. The workmanship was not particularly good, and they were absolutely identical, each made from the same mold. But why hide these in some subterranean vault? My idea about putting the antiquity in with a number of fakes should have meant that the objects were handled using the normal channels, not hidden away down here. There was also a sizable dolly which could transport the crates. But where from down here would you take them? You’d need a crane rather than a dolly to get them up to the surface.
I looked under the first layer of little pots and found a second, all the same. I checked the third layer. By now it was getting monotonous, rows and rows of not particularly exceptional fake ceramics. There must be something here, I told myself, keep looking. From the bottom layer, I picked a cresole at random and took it out to have a better look, turning it around and then looking inside. Small plastic bag, white powder: cocaine. It had to be. Cocaine was being shipped out in little Moche pots. The Paradise Crafts Factory was more aptly named than I ever would have guessed.
I went to the second crate and checked the second layer of pots, all empty, and then the third layer. I could hardly believe what I saw. Gold peanut beads, dozens of them, some of them the size of my fist, gleamed in the beam of my flashlight. Beneath them lay a golden scepter, gold breastplate, back flap, nose flap, and ear spools, not unlike the one I’d held, of gold and turquoise and other stones. I took a look at the shape of the helmet and tried to recall what Steve had told me about Moche rituals. “It’s the warrior priest,” I gasped at last. “They’ve found the tomb of a warrior priest!”
I never made it to the third box. As I reached it, I thought I heard a scraping sound above me, and tiny pinpoints of light showed through the matting above. I extinguished my flashlight quickly and moved toward the door that shouldn’t by any rights lead anywhere. There was nowhere else to hide. I heard the matting being pulled off the entrance to the chamber and a grunt as someone lowered themselves onto the steps. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. Open, please, I said to myself. I yanked and the door opened. I stepped behind it, pulling the door closed behind me. I had no idea where I was, and was afraid to turn on the flashlight even for a second. I just stood there, shivering, partly in fear, but also because the air was cold and damp, with an unmistakable odor of something starting to rot. I heard a splash as the intruder stepped off into the water at the bottom.
Then, much to my surprise, the lights came on. The electrical cord, I thought. They’ve strung a cord out from the factory to light this place. There must have been a switch in the chamber which I had not seen, although it would have never occurred to me to look for a light switch in an underground chamber. I was in a long, man-made tunnel heading some distance underground. There were wires strung the length of it, and from time to time a dim bulb.
I felt terribly exposed standing there. I would be seen instantly if whoever was out there chose to open the door. On the plus side, however, I could see where I was going, and I knew where Carlos Montero had gone. His crumpled body had been stuffed into a little niche in the tunnel wall.