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  “I still don’t know. Nor do I know the city, but knowing it’s Lazar, I’m afraid we’re talking about tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of lives. Can you help us?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Can you work with our mutual friend?”

  “I don’t make friends that easy.”

  “Get over the past, Chuck. My brother is a good man, and the clock is ticking.”

  Chuck hung up. He felt less safe around this boat than ever. If Stuart could show up here, who else might pay him a visit?

  CHAPTER 10

  Four days, six hours till WMD attack

  Chuck stood in front of one of the great landmarks of Lima. Named for Saint Francis, it was called the San Francisco Church, and pigeons flocked in front of the main entrance. It was a beautiful sight to behold, a hulking leviathan, a yellow baroque-style church with twin bell towers. It was a reminder of past centuries and enduring traditions. Chuck scanned the area. A big man caught his attention, but he was feeding pigeons two blocks away. There was no sign of a hit team, so Chuck proceeded with caution. As he walked toward the entrance, pigeons cleared a path and circled around the fountain.

  The soaring, arched ceilings, the elaborate domes, the massive columns, the chandeliers, the Baroque architecture, the Holy atmosphere—the combined impressions made Chuck long for something that was missing in his life. The deep thought and love that went into each of the thousands of architectural details soothed his imagination, but there was something more than that, something he could neither see nor hear. He was reminded of the monastery in Spain where he’d recovered from a gunshot wound. He was reminded of the peace, love, and forgiveness he’d encountered there.

  Kneeling at a pew, he thought about how essential it was to stop Lazar. The man had to be stopped. Too many had died already, but to stop him seemed impossible.

  He thought about Lawrence’s warnings of mass casualties. It was so frustrating. Someone had to take action. Chuck thought about Alberto, a young man who’d been hanging around Fisherman’s Wharf in Chorrillos yesterday.

  They’d gotten to talking. When Alberto offered to help, Chuck hired him for a couple of hours of work on the Matacancha, and Alberto told Chuck his story. It had all begun with a messy divorce when he was in high school. Alberto had lost some of his motivation and began to party. It seemed fun at first, but he put less effort into school, and his grades became less impressive. He lost eligibility for academic scholarships. Then his life seemed to spiral out of control when he was exposed to death.

  First, he’d been in a car wreck. He’d crawled away from it with a broken leg, but he’d lost his good friend. Then his father died. Then his brother overdosed on heroine. He’d told Chuck about how when he’d helped to clean out his brother’s apartment, he found all kinds of drug paraphernalia. It was sickening, but also a life-changing experience for Alberto. He realized that death comes when it comes—and that’s when it’s least expected. He realized that he’d been wasting his life, and that if he was to die, his life would be a very sad waste. He knew he had to change. He had been giving everything in life half an effort. He determined that as long as he lived, he would never waste another day, nor would do anything by half-measure. He would give his very best in everything he did, every day, no matter how small.

  Since that time, he’d gone to college and earned straight A’s while working nights and living in an abandoned building. When Chuck thought of Alberto, who’d suffered so much just trying to find his way in life, he could not stomach the evil motives of Lazar, who was bent on unleashing mass death and destruction. Wonderful Americans, including the poor and downtrodden, would struggle and suffer, and then when they finally discovered their direction and purpose in life, someone like Lazar wanted to take out large numbers of random people for his own selfish purposes, robbing countless others of their personal growth and life’s journey.

  Chuck was determined to stop Lazar and his sadistic Black Cobra terrorists.

  He left the church an hour later.

  Back on the streets, he got an idea.

  His first stop was the city library. The librarian was a friendly lady with sunglasses and her hair all swirled up in a bun. When Chuck found her, she was eager to help. Chuck explained that he was an art professor on sabbatical and writing a book on the architecture of art museums. She directed him to plenty of excellent resources, from books to articles. Chuck read every article he could find on the Peruvian Gold and Weapons of the World Museum. He also skimmed a book on the topic. Several articles covered an attempted robbery a few years back. Fortunately, the museum had high-tech security. It was billed as impossible to break in. Sure enough, the robbery attempt had failed, and the prisoners were rotting away in prison.

  The thieves should have known better, Chuck thought. Not only was the museum patrolled by guards, but an elaborate system of infrared beams set off alarms if anyone entered the building at night. One official claimed that “The public can breathe easy.” He said that the gold artifacts in the museum were safe, and “not even a ghost could break into the Peruvian Gold Museum.”

  Chuck realized that if the official quoted in the article was right and the museum could not be robbed, then he had a problem. Stage One in his plan to take down Lazar and his conspiracy against America required him to “borrow” a rare Inca artifact. He recalled his talk with Maria back in Costa Brava. It seemed so long ago now even if it wasn’t. She’d talked about her father being a collector of statues of great historical figures, but he was actually obsessed with gold Inca artifacts and Inca skulls. Chuck knew from Viracocha that obsession was the right word. Those memories were from only months ago, but it seemed like years. Yet the fragments were coming together in the present. Dots were starting to connect in Chuck’s mind. That was good, but it also meant risks were increasing, especially given what he was about to do.

  CHAPTER 11

  Four Days till WMD Attack

  Sitting on a rocky beach in La Punta, Chuck soaked in the views and memories—the glittering views of all the boats moored offshore, the grim memories of Lazar’s gunrunners that he’d faced down just months earlier on the nearby island of El Frontón. He thought about all his reading on the city bus, reading that spanned local history and culture, just for starters. While important Inca skulls were not mentioned as being featured at the Peruvian Gold Museum, Chuck had seen something that caught his eye.

  He saw a reference to a special exhibition of mummies that included an incomparable artifact, and Chuck had the feeling that Lazar would be interested. It was the actual mummified head of Capac Yupanqui, named the fifth Inca. He was also known as the Unforgettable King. He was also the first Inca to send out marauders to exact tribute from tribes beyond Cuzco, the Inca capital.

  The exhibit was there. The skull was covered in the mummified skin, but it was still what Lazar craved. Maria had emphasized that General Lazar collected royal skulls. Chuck had to believe that he would drool over an artifact like this. No doubt he would pay a premium for it.

  When the bus arrived at his destination, Chuck shouted, “Baja aquí!”

  The bus driver responded and pulled over. The doors squeaked open, and Chuck made his way through standing passengers and left the bus.

  At first glance, the museum’s building somehow reminded Chuck of the Department of Motor Vehicles building in Las Vegas. It was not an elegant building, but it looked very solid. Old fashioned cannons by the front door reminded visitors that this was also a weapons museum.

  Inside, Chuck introduced himself as Charles D. Hathaway, Phd. He emphasized the credential with a pompous tone. He announced that he was writing a book about pre-Columbian artifacts and would be spending a lot of time here over the next week.

  “Do you have rooms at your disposal for traveling scholars?” Chuck said.

  “No.” Jaime shook his head. Jaime was a uniformed guard posted by the front desk. He was an old guy with young eyes. “We don’t have that here.”
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  Chuck frowned and shook his head as if this was a black mark on the museum’s prestige. “Really? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, you can walk around if you want though. There’s tons of gold artifacts. We’ve had other scholars come through here.”

  “Really?” Chuck said. “Really? I’d love to hear about their thesis.”

  Jaime looked away, uncomfortable. “I can’t remember that.”

  “Really? I’ll be around for a few days. I’ll be sure to tell you about mine.”

  “Okay, sure.” Jaime was friendly, but didn’t seem especially interested in hearing about the thesis of Charles D. Hathaway, Phd.

  Over the next couple of days, Chuck made lots of small talk with Jaime. Chuck asked him various questions about his job and the patrons. At one point, Jaime spilled the fact that security was lax after midnight when the janitorial crews showed up. The alarms were turned off so that the janitors could work. Jaime was not happy with the young guys who worked the night shift either because they got lazy and spent too much time on the internet.

  In the evenings, Chuck returned to the old tug boat at Fisherman’s Wharf in the Chorillos district of Lima.

  In the hours before sunset, Chorrillos was always vibrant with energy. The coastal road ran along the base of the brown seacliffs that were topped with white stucco homes. Parked cars lined the road and filled the parking lot. People and umbrellas made the beach look like a multi-colored quilt. The joyful shouts of children could be heard over the shooshing sounds of little waves on the beach. Sun glittered on the water, where the colorful little fishing boats were moored by the dozen. Happy people in shorts and sunglasses wandered along the pier, where the Matacancha was tied up. Chuck was a bit of a distraction to the peaceful atmosphere when he ran boards through the table saw on deck. He ran many boards at once so he didn’t drag out the noise too much. Then he’d talk with a few passing visitors and enjoy a cold glass of water. He’d give some of the curious ones a tour of the boat. Then he’d go below decks again to assemble the bunk beds and cabinets he was making for the cabin in the bow.

  During normal working hours, it was back to the museum. By Thursday, he had a thick sheaf of notes that he’d been taking on artifacts and especially on the museum’s layout and protocols. Near closing time, when nobody was around or paying attention, he slipped down a hall that he’d scoped out and picked the lock of a storage closet. He slipped in there and waited…for seven hours. At 12:15 a.m., he slipped out of the closet and verified that the laser sensors were off. He carefully placed the mummified head of Capac Yupanqui in a canvas sack.

  With this prize in hand, Chuck looked around. The museum boasted 33,000 gold artifacts. He had never seen so many gold artifacts in his life. If he wanted, right then he could have pulled off a heist worth millions. The displays were packed with gold Inca artifacts. He felt the temptation of greed running through his veins, but he took nothing more than what he’d come for. With his mummified head, he entered the restroom and slipped out the window.

  Walking away from the museum, he knew his plan was getting more dangerous by the minute. To get close to Lazar, he would try to sell him the skull. If his plan backfired, he would pay with his life.

  CHAPTER 12

  Fifty-two hours, three minutes till WMD attack

  A red-bearded man with long, red hair, sunglasses, a ruddy complexion, an oversized red poncho and loose pants held up with suspenders, ambled down the city street, a locally handcrafted bag draping from his hand. He was Chuck Brandt after a careful make-up and costume effort.

  He approached Lazar’s building with its gothic doors and its little statues lining the roof. Words of the poet Geoffrey Faber came to his mind. Faber wrote of “a heart still prisoned in the frost of war.” It was just another day to Chuck Brandt, a day of flesh and the spirit and of warfare in the shadow world. An eternal battle raged deep, a war waged on bended knee in the dark quiet of the night—but also in daylight in the arena with lions.

  As he approached Lazar’s building, he saw a man standing in the shadows of a door nook under an awning.

  The man stepped out of the shadows, a snarling, sinister figure with a curled lip. Warning emanated from his cold eyes. He wore a black beret and held a submachine gun, a tattoo of a Black Cobra twisting around his trigger finger.

  He wanted to be seen. Chuck was being warned.

  As he approached the front doorway of building, he also approached a second man, a man with a serious face and the penetrating, uncaring, measuring eyes that Chuck had seen in so many killers. He held his submachine gun with leather-gloved hands. He was a young Hispanic man with short, neat hair. He had a big face, and a thick neck. As a security man, he came across as basically a powerful, healthy-looking professional. Chuck had no idea whether he was a Black Cobra thug or some other mercenary.

  “¿Qué deseas?” the man said.

  “Necesito hablar con el general. Tengo algo que él quiere muy mal.”

  “You are American?”

  “Tell the general that I was referred to him by Diego Tahvili. It is very important that I talk to him right away.”

  “What is in the bag?”

  “A relic I am making available for purchase.”

  He reached out. “Let me see that.”

  “No,” Chuck said, “I’ll open and you can look. It’s fragile.”

  He showed him. The thug fliched and cursed.

  He opened the door. “Come inside, but keep your right hand behind your neck.”

  Chuck nodded and went in. The receptionist was protected behind a wall of bullet-proof glass. She was a young girl with a pretty face and suspicious eyes, probably nineteen years old. She watched Chuck carefully.

  “Put your hands on the wall,” the thug said.

  Chuck obeyed.

  The thug patted him down. Chuck glanced over at the receptionist. She was watching him with nervous interest.

  “Give me the bag.”

  “Just be careful. It’s extremely fragile. Damage that thing and Lazar will be very unhappy.” Chuck handed it over.

  The thug inspected the contents, and Chuck noticed that he was extra careful. Satisfied that there was no weapon in there, he gave it back to Chuck.

  “Wait here.”

  Chuck waited there for over twenty minutes before the Black Cobra enforcer returned.

  “Follow me.”

  The receptionist buzzed the door, and the thug led Chuck into a maze of halls and closed doors. He was taken to a conference room and left there. Twenty expensive, shiny wooden chairs were arranged around a board room table. A big television screen at the end of the room was on but the screen was blue.

  Then a familiar face appeared on the screen.

  General Lazar. He had thick, grayish-black hair and dark eyebrows. His dark eyes glittered with hostile energy. His neck muscles bulged.

  “Who are you?” the general said.

  Chuck felt a tinge of relief of relief. Lazar had not recognized him. The make-up, the glasses, the red eyebrows and wig had worked.

  Chuck shrugged his shoulders. “Monte Morrow, originally from Santa Monica, California.”

  “And how did you get my name?”

  “Diego Tahvili.”

  Lazar narrowed his eyes. “Diego Tahvili is dead.” The image on the movie screen looked hostile.

  Chuck had read about Tahvili’s death in a news story. The article had connected him with General Lazar. He said, “I know, I talked to him a few months before his accident. He said that you wanted to acquire a certain kind of relic and are willing to pay top dollar.”

  Lazar glared. “And you acquired such an artifact from the museum in Lima in order to meet the need. It that it?”

  “Yes, I see you’ve read the news.”

  “Tell me about your acquisition.”

  “If you read the newspaper account of the heist, you have an idea. It’s the actual mummified head of Capac Yupanqui. They called him the fifth Inca. He was also kno
wn as the Unforgettable King. He was the first Inca to send out marauders to exact tribute from tribes beyond Cuzco.”

  “Move a little to your left.”

  “What?”

  “To your left. Move. So you’re in front of the camera.”

  Chuck sidestepped.

  “Now the show me the artifact. Hold it up.”

  Chuck reached into his bag. Very carefully, he held up the mummified head. The mummified skin felt as dry and rough as gummed-up old sandpaper. The Inca’s skin was brown like dry dirt, but the Inca had obviously been an old man when he died. The brown skin was lined with deep wrinkles, especially around the eyes and mouth. The hair was preserved and was almost as good as the red hair of the wig that Chuck was wearing. The hair of the mummified head, however, was as gray as ashes. The eyes were dried up and shriveled in the sockets, and were as brown as skin. Chuck had the sense that one or two taps of a hammer could cause all the skin to crumble right off the skull.

  Lazar’s excited eyes peered down from the screen. “Put it on the desk,” he said. “Gently. Very, very gently. Careful! You damage that thing and I’ll cut your heart out!”

  “Relax, general. I got this for you. I’ve been very careful.”

  Chuck put the mummified head down on a piece of felt on the table.

  The general glared at him with excited, angry eyes. “How dare you steal the head of Capac Yupanqui. Only a great general or conqueror is worthy to the touch a great conqueror like Capac Yupanqui. He was a king, an Inca, a son of the sun. And you—a common thief—dare to lay your hands on his skull. I should kill you right now for what you have done.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I am a master thief and I am your friend. I can get you more relics in the future.”

  “And how much do you want for this?”

  “Five hundred thousand.”

  Lazar laughed. “You are a fool. Value is based on supply and demand. There is only one head of Capac Yupanqui, but that’s why there can be no demand for it. Nobody would buy this because it is a high-profile relic. They could never display it without fear of the law. Only I am willing to take the risk. You are a desperate man because you have stolen a relic that you won’t be able to unload anywhere but here. I will give you $50,000, but I’m buying your discretion as well. If word ever gets out that you sold this to me, you’ll pay for it with your life.”