The Tang Dynasty Underwater Pyramid Read Online Free Page A

I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep with the maneuvering thrusters shrieking and the anchor chain clattering inboard, so I took a turn on deck. The ship lay in a pool of mist, an even cloud lightened only slightly by the distant moon. The ship was picking up speed as it swung onto a new heading … and then suddenly the air was full of the scent of sandalwood. It was as if we were no longer in fog, but in the smoke produced by an entire sandalwood grove going up in flames.
    I had scant time to marvel at this when I heard, magnified by the fog, the sound of a toyo, the largest of the Andean panpipes. The sound was loud and flamboyant and showy, featuring triple-stopping and double-tonguing slick as the pomade on Elvis’s hair, and it was followed by a roar of applause.
    “Damn it!” I shouted into the mist. “It’s Fidel Perugachi! ”
    And then I ran for the nearest companionway.
    While I was banging on Jesse’s cabin door— and simultaneously trying to reach him on his cell phone— I was interrupted by my cousin Jorge and my brother Sancho, who were strolling down the corridor with their fan Oharu, who carried an umbrella drink in one hand, had an inebriated smile on his face, and was still wearing his poncho and derby.
    “What’s up, bro?” Jorge asked.
    I replied in Aymara. “The Ayancas have turned up. Get rid of our friend here as soon as you can and get back here.” When I spoke to Oharu, I switched back to English. “I’m trying to collect some gambling winnings.”
    “Ah,” he nodded. “Good luck.” He raised a pudgy fist. “You want me to bash him on the head?”
    “Ah,” I said, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
    Jesse opened the door and answered his cell phone simultaneously, blinking in the corridor light. “What’s happening?”
    “We need to talk,” I said, and shoved my way into his room.
    “The Ayancas are here!” I said while Jesse put on a dressing gown. “They’re out in the fog, taunting us with flute music! We’ve got to do something!”
    “Like what?” Jesse, still not exactly compos, groped on the lacquered side table for a cigarette.
    “Get some machine guns! Mortars! Rocket launchers! Those guys are evil! ”
    Jesse lit his coffin nail and inhaled. “Perhaps you had better tell me who these Ayancas are, exactly.”
    It was difficult to condense the last thousand years of Andean history into a few minutes, but I did my best. It was only the last forty years that mattered anyway, because that’s when my uncle Iago, returning from a trip to Europe (to buy a shipment of derby hats, believe it or not), saw his first James Bond movie and decided to form his own private intelligence service, and subsequently sent his young relatives (like me) to an elite Swiss prep school, while the rest formed into bands of street musicians who could wander the streets, not unobtrusive but at least unsuspected as they went about their secret work.
    “Fidel Perugachi is a traitor and a copycat cheat!” I said. “He formed his own outfit and went into competition with us.” I shook a fist. “Perugachi’s nothing but llama spit!”
    “So there are competing secret organizations of Andean street musicians?” Jesse said, slow apparently to wrap his mind around this concept.
    “All the musicians belong to one group or the other,” I said. “But the Ayancas lack our heritage. They’re sort-of cousins to the Urinsaya moiety, but we’re the Hanansaya moiety! Our ancestors were the Alasaa, and were buried in stone towers!”
    Jesse blinked. “Good for them,” he said. “But do you really think the Ayancas are here for the Goldfish Fairy? ”
    “Why else would they be in Hong Kong at this moment?” I demanded. “You were right in Prague when you worried that you were being shadowed. Your opposition found out you were hiring us, so they countered by hiring the Ayancas. Why else would Fidel Perugachi be off playing his toyo in the fog and the clouds of sandalwood