Golden Relic (24 page)

Maggie pointed to each figure as she named them. "Pavel, Lloyd, Noel, Alistair and Jean. The
woman next to Jean is Sarah Croydon, she's with the University in Wellington, and beside her is
Louis Ducruet, who's a French Canadian anthropologist. That's it."

"That leaves," Sam counted the heads, "five people who are obviously guides or porters, one
unknown woman and these three blokes."

"There must have been at least one other person," Maggie said, pointing to the shadow in the
foreground. "If he was there at all, Schliemann may have been the one who took the photo."

"Five out of the seven team members you can identify are dead. That leaves four or five members
we don't know anything about, plus a Kiwi and a Canadian." Sam noted. "Oh, no. Marcus's show goes to
Wellington next, before finishing its world tour in Montreal."

"I had already thought of that, Sam," Maggie said. "And I did try getting in touch with Sarah and
Louis while we were still in Melbourne, to see if they knew anything."

"I thought you said you'd told me everything," Sam said.

"I did, I have. That slipped my mind because I didn't actually speak to either of them. Sarah was
on a fishing trip with her husband, and Louis is somewhere in Turkey," Maggie explained. "Ah
dinner," she added, in response to the sound of Richarte banging the side of the cooking pot with a
spoon.

"It smells great," Sam commented, accepting the bowl of noodle something from Richarte.

"
Sopa a la criolla
," Richarte said. "Spicy soup, with meat and vegetables. Would you like
a
Cuzquena
?"

"Um, probably," Sam said hesitantly.

"It's beer," Maggie explained.

"In that case, definitely," Sam said.

Nursing a mug of coffee, Sam leant back against the tree and closed her eyes. Her
ribs ached, her shins and knees were bruised, her arms were scratched, she was filthy, exhausted and
completely invigorated. It had taken nearly two days to travel only 15 kilometres. They had followed
overgrown trails of Inca stone, slashed through vegetation so dense they could see nothing but the
plants that brushed against them on all sides, and traversed rocky promontories where the view of
the surrounding mountains was utterly breathtaking.

Richarte assured them they were following a trail the whole way, but half the time it was beyond
Sam how he could tell the difference between path and jungle, or trail and rocky incline. They had
crossed two high passes on an Inca roadway barely six feet wide, climbing to well over 4000 metres
before descending a thousand to traverse a valley floor or follow the trail over a lower pass.

The ruins of a round and roofless stone building which Maggie said would have been an Inca
tambo
, or roadside shelter for royal couriers to rest and corral their llamas, had been their
camp site the previous night. And two hours into their trek this morning they had rounded a rocky
outcrop to find themselves at the top of a flight of ancient agricultural terraces that swept around
the hillside and disappeared down into the jungle which had overgrown the lower levels. The four
upper terraces were about three metres high, five wide and a hundred long. The Inca had constructed
them in the same type of cut stone blocks they used for their buildings and had filled them with
rich valley soil fertilised with guano. The uppermost terrace had been reclaimed by a local Indian
family who were tending their crops of potatoes and maize.

"Are you feeling okay, Sam?"

"Maggie," Sam said opening her eyes, "I don't think I've ever felt better in my life."

Maggie laughed. "Well, you look like hell."

"Thank you very much."

"I'd give anything for a comfortable motorised armchair myself. I think I'm getting too old for
all this gadding about in the wilderness."

"You love it, Maggie. You won't stop gadding until you're confined to an armchair."

"Ha, you're probably right Sam. Let's get going. Richarte says we're on the home stretch."

Three hours later they were still walking. Sam was bringing up the rear on a
precipitous section of trail that had been cut into the cliff face leading down from a pass.
Richarte halted the group as they reached the forest and pointed ahead to where the trail
disappeared into a natural fissure in the rock.

"Is that wide enough?" Maggie asked. "Have we come the right way?"

"Of course it is wide enough," Richarte said, stamping his foot on the pathway of Inca-laid
stones. "Come, our destination must be very close."

Richarte led the way, followed by Maggie and Sam, then Richarte's sons. The fissure was three
metres across, wide enough, Richarte announced, for an Inca and his beasts. The ground underfoot
began as smooth stone with a light downward slope but as they emerged from the fissure into dense
forest the path became a narrow, winding and very steep stone staircase cut from the hillside.

One hundred and twenty-nine steps later Sam reached the bottom where Maggie and Richarte were
paying close attention to a wall.

"Just look at this, Sam," Maggie exclaimed, running her hand over the smooth stones. "I still
marvel at the artistry of the Inca builders. These polygonal blocks were cut with no regular pattern
yet each fits perfectly with the stones around it. Not a scrap of mortar was used."

"Is this the outside of a building?" Sam asked.

"I doubt it," Maggie said. "The Inca usually used ordinary rectangular blocks, still without
mortar, to construct their buildings and palaces. Polygonal masonry, or multi-sided stone like this
was considered to be stronger so it was more commonly used for agricultural terraces, like the one
we saw this morning, or the walls of forts or cities."

"So is this it then?" Sam asked excitedly. "Have we found Manco City?"

"Richarte thinks this is North-East Seven. Whatever else it may be remains to be seen."

"It's big, whatever it is," Sam commented five minutes later as they continued to follow the
trail beside the wall. Richarte disappeared around a corner as the wall and its path took a westerly
turn. When Maggie and Sam caught up to him, he was standing, staring and shaking his head in
disbelief.

"What is it? Oh. Wow," Sam exclaimed, turning to Maggie who had grabbed hold of her arm. The
view, through a trapezoid window in the wall, would qualify as every archaeologist's dream.

Below them were the ruins of a large multi-level ceremonial site. More than 40 buildings of
different sizes and in various stages of reclamation surrounded a central plaza. Some of the larger
ruins on the far side were still overgrown with vines and other vegetation, but those in the centre
and to the left and right had been carefully cleared and maintained, and all were connected by
pathways or staircases.

"
Intihuatana
," Richarte said, pointing to the compound's highest point, a rock pillar
standing atop a pyramidal stone platform.

"The hitching post of the sun," Maggie explained to Sam. "The Inca worshipped the sun god Inti,
and believed that the Sapa Inca, the king, was the son of Inti. The pillar worked like a sundial,
except the Inca astronomers used it to mark the time of year and predict the solstices. The Sapa
Inca, as the son of god, had control of the seasons and the pillar was literally a hitching post
that held the sun to the earth.

"In their quest to Christianise the Indians, the Spaniards destroyed the
Intihuatana
wherever they found them in order to crush the heathen religion. The post at Machu Picchu was the
only one known to have survived, but only because the Spanish didn't know about Machu Picchu."

"This one obviously eluded them too," Sam noted. "What are those buildings on the right?"

"The big one with the wide staircase would be the Temple of the Sun because it centres on the
site's largest square or Sacred Plaza. The smaller building next to it was possibly the house of the
high priest, and those empty terraces running down that slope over there are ceremonial baths,"
Maggie explained. "The ruins on the far side are typical
canchas
. The Inca built their
residences in blocks facing a central courtyard. The
cancha
had only one entrance, like that
archway on the left."

"How do you suppose we get in?" Sam asked.

"The same way they did," Maggie said pointing to a group of tents on the east side of the
plaza.

"The tail descends again," Richarte said. "The entrance must be further on."

It was another five minutes and 53 stairs down before they found a wide gateway that led into a
maze of high stone walls. They finally emerged on the third lowest of the compound's six levels,
about 50 metres from the north-west corner of the Sacred Plaza.

"Where the bloody hell did you all come from?" came a voice behind them. A young bearded
Englishman wearing boots, shorts and a singlet had just emerged from a nearby building.

"Oh, we just wandered in from Aguas Calientes," Maggie smiled. "Do you have a gentleman by the
name of Henri Schliemann working with you?"

"We've got a Henry Morgan," he said ushering them across the plaza. "But no Schliemann."

"This is Site North-East Seven?" Sam asked.

"Sure is. But you've come a long way for someone who ain't here."

"How many people are on the team?" Maggie asked, as they approached the campsite.

"There's seven of us at the moment, plus a support staff of five or six. I'm Phil by the
way."

"And who's in charge?"

"That would be Xavier. Dr Xavier Tremaine."

Maggie stopped dead in her tracks.

"Do you know him, Maggie?" Sam asked. "Is he a relative?"

"Xavier Tremaine…is my father," Maggie said, as if she couldn't believe what she was
saying.

"Your father? I didn't know archaeology was a family tradition," Sam said, calculating he'd have
to be in his late seventies. What on earth was he doing way out here, she wondered.

"It
isn't
a tradition," Maggie snarled. "My father was a pharmacist in St Kilda, until his
death 15 years ago. Where is he? Where is this
Dr
Tremaine?"

"Um," Phil hesitated, looking around, "over there on the log by the far tent. The gentleman with
his back to us."

Maggie grunted. "Give me your gun please, Sam," she demanded.

"I didn't bring my gun, Maggie," Sam replied. "What do you want a gun for?"

"There's a man I have to kill," Maggie snapped, striding off across the plaza.

"What are you talking about?" Sam had to run to catch up to her.

"Him." Maggie pointed to Xavier Tremaine. "I have to kill
him
."

Sam tried to grab hold of Maggie's arm but she shook herself free, stepped over the log and
confronted the man with her father's name.

"You
bastard
!" Maggie pronounced, and then decked him with a swift right hook to the
chin.

Sam raised an eyebrow and smiled down at the bear of a man lying sprawled, and laughing, at her
feet. "Pavel Mercier, I presume," she said. "There's a rumour going around that you're dead."

"Oh no, not me," he said, "I am going to live forever."

"You are not," Maggie said through clenched teeth. "Get up you old bastard, so I can knock you
down again."

"Maggie," Pavel said rolling over so he could stand up. "My darling Maggie, let me explain."

"Don't you dare 'my darling' me. I've spent the last eight months believing you were dead."

"I had a situation," Pavel began, "and the best way to handle it was simply, um, not to be. So
after I got run down by a crazy in Cuzco I chose to disappear."

"You spread the rumour?" Maggie asked.

"What can I say, eh? I am sorry I worried you."

"I wasn't worried," Maggie declared. "You were dead. What's to worry about?"

"And now I am not dead. So give me a hug."

"Nah! Don't you come near me." Maggie tried to fend him off, but Pavel wrapped his arms around
her and lifted her clean off the ground.

"Now, tell me who is your lovely young friend?" Pavel queried, putting Maggie down again.

"My friend is Sam Diamond. She's an Australian federal police officer. And the only reason you're
not lying bleeding on the ground is that she didn't think to bring her gun with her."

"She loves me really," Pavel said to Sam.

"I can see that," Sam noted, shaking his hand.

"Are you really a police officer?"

"I really am," Sam nodded.

Pavel shook his head as if life was strange indeed. "Come sit down. You too Maggie," he ordered.
"Are you hungry?"

"No," said Maggie.

"I'm starving," said Sam, "and so is she."

"Good, then we shall eat, drink and talk," Pavel stated. "Wait here, I'll talk to the cook."

Sam glanced at Maggie, who was smiling despite herself, and then turned her attention back to
Pavel who had finished with the cook and was now shaking Richarte's hand vigorously. She figured the
no-longer-deceased Dr Mercier to be in his mid-sixties, and he was obviously strong and fit. His
blue eyes had held a distinctly youthful glimmer, although his thick, shaggy grey hair, sideburns
and droopy moustache made him look like he'd spent too much time in the 1970s.

"What is his accent?" Sam asked. "It's sort of multi-lingual."

"You name it, Pavel has absorbed it," Maggie snarled.

"Aren't you pleased that he's alive?" Sam teased.

"I will be very pleased, as soon as I get over being angry that he's not dead," Maggie
stated.

"Have you forgiven me yet?" Pavel asked, returning with two folding chairs.

"Not this side of the millennium," Maggie declared, but she gave him a hug before sitting
down.

"So tell me how are things in the big wide world outside?"

"Aren't you in the least bit interested why we're here?" Maggie asked.

"You will no doubt tell me, when it suits you, my darling."