The others–Edgewood, De La Cruz, and Hooper–were the unknown element of the unit. But despite his lack of knowledge about the trio, Kane believed it was time one of his Andean expeditions had a run of luck, and he was more than prepared to put some trust in his own judgement. Besides, it was a little late to start second guessing himself now.

  Descending from the dizzying heights of Cuzco to the lower altitudes deeper into the Sacred Valley seemed to energise the group, and it wasn’t long before Evan was sharing his limited repertoire of jokes. And they were atrocious.

  “What do you call a slug wearing a crash helmet?” he asked with an impish grin.

  “Don’t know,” replied Muddy, chuckling at Evan’s enthusiasm.

  “A snail.”

  Groans all round, except Kate Edgewood, who emitted a rather embarrassing snort. “Not bad,” she said, then hid her blushing face with her hands.

  “Okay, what do you call a pig with three eyes?”

  Blank looks as they tried to work it out. Nothing.

  “A pi-i-ig,” Evan said with a defined stutter.

  Haines liked that one, his shoulders jiggling in time with the jolting train. Ridley, who’d heard these jokes too many times before, just shook her head in dismay.

  “Okay, one more. What do you call a deer with no eyes?”

  “No idea,” said Kane, taking a seat opposite Evan. “Do you get it, Muddy? No-eye-deer?”

  “Spoilsport,” scolded Evan, mouth curled in a smirk, “How about this, then? What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs?”

  Kane grimaced at the follow-up. No one else had a guess.

  “Still no-eye-deer. Get it? With no legs, it can’t move. It’s still? Don’t worry, fans, I’m here all week.”

  “They might just be the worst jokes I’ve ever heard,” said Haines, laughing, “And they’d better improve over the next few days, or you’ll be sharing a tent with a burro.”

  “You old-timers just don’t know classic comedy, that’s all. Wasted, I tell you, totally wasted.”

  And that’s how the remaining two hours of the journey passed for the familiar members of the team, Kane and Craft mocking each other like old friends did, and Ridley mediating the banter and explaining it to the confused American, Muddy.

  A few seats away, both sitting alone, were Angelo De La Cruz and Howie Hooper. Flicking through the pages of a book on the conquistadors, the Spaniard was scribbling on the page margins. More than content sitting by himself, Kane had learned over the last ten days in Cuzco the man relished his privacy. On the other hand, Hooper had a pompous look of superiority about him, as if demonstrating he was too smart to listen to Evan’s childish jokes. It wasn’t lost on Kane, and just one more thing he made a mental note of. Hooper–doesn’t play well with others.

  A high-pitched whistle pierced the white noise of the rumbling train, soon followed by the unearthly screeching of overused brakes reverberating through the valley as the old train ground to a halt at the equally old Aguas Calientes Station. Within seconds of stopping eager tourists streamed out onto the platform to be accosted by cheerful ladies selling everything from coca leaves, to soup, to bamboo walking sticks. After buying last minute supplies they headed out in search of the hot springs, or embarked on the short but calf-busting hike to Machu Picchu.

  Kane stood and stretched. He allowed the rush of tourists to depart the platform first, then grabbed his backpack from the overhead rack and stepped down from the train. A second later someone gripped in a crushing bear hug. Sonco!

  “Hiram, my friend,” roared the human barrel, pinning Kane’s arms and lifting him off the platform. After a moment he released him and stepped back, casting his eyes over the expedition leader. “Did you get fat?”

  Kane laughed. “It’s good to see you too, Sonco,” he said, and returned the friendly banter. “You didn’t get any thinner.”

  It really was good to see Sonco, his long-time friend and trusted guide, and although they’d spoken on the phone almost every day during the last couple of months, in order to organise the local team and discuss logistics, they hadn’t seen each other in the flesh since the last aborted attempt on Vilcabamba the previous year.

  Kane and Sonco chatted while corralling the others and their gear and were soon free of the tiny station’s bedlam. A little way down the road, away from the hustle of Aguas Calientes’ main drag, Sonco led Kane and the group to where his own team waited. After the briefest of introductions, they were on the move again, headed west into the relatively unknown terrain beyond the infamy of Machu Picchu. Unknown to most people. For Kane and Sonco, it was familiar ground.

  Completing their party was Sonco’s team of porters and mules. The Quechuans were proud men, and had always been excellent on Kane’s expeditions, and Sonco always chose his team with due care. Kane was often a little edgy on the morning of a big expedition, not only because of the nervy excitement of what they were setting out to discover, but more because of the responsibility he had to guide and look after the people under his charge. Knowing he had Sonco with him, calm and proud, and ready to do anything Kane needed of him, filled Hiram with a confidence he simply couldn’t muster without his friend alongside.

  With all that in mind, Hiram was ready. Today was the first day of what he believed would be a fourteen day round trip, the day which he truly believed marked the start of his greatest adventure yet.

  Very soon–about a week, if all went well–he would be standing in the genuine lost city of the Incas.

  Vilcabamba.

  Aguas Calientes. The exotic name means hot water in Spanish, and for Kane the small town had often been the start and finishing point for many serious expeditions. He knew well the joys of taking a long and restorative soak in the thermal springs that bubbled up from beneath the mountains, though they are always crowded with weary but jubilant trekkers after completing the four-day Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. He was almost sad they didn’t have time for a dip in the baths now. Almost. But not quite. He could wait for his celebratory soak.

  If Aguas Calientes seemed exotic, then Machu Picchu simply oozed evocative myth and legend. In 1912, Harvard archaeologist and freelance explorer, Hiram Bingham and his assistant Patrick Kane rediscovered Machu Picchu. They explored the Andes searching for the last Inca stronghold, in the region fated ruler Atahualpa allegedly led his people in a desperate attempt to save the empire from the Spanish conquistadors, themselves led by Francisco Pizarro.

  Legend has it that in that remote location, the Incas had hidden their remaining treasure from the Spaniards, including gold, jewels, and knowledge. Bingham had made finding the lost city his life’s ambition. Travel weary, and on the verge of giving up after months of gruelling exploration, Bingham and his team stumbled upon a village of native farmers on the jungled mountainside. After a series of negotiations, the villagers led Bingham's men to what he believed with all his heart was Vilcabamba.

  They had indeed rediscovered a beautiful lost city. But, in what turned out to be a devastating blow for Bingham and his assistant Kane, they found no treasure. It certainly bought them fame, despite the lack of Inca gold, and Bingham maintained for most of his life his stance that he’d located the lost city. But Patrick Kane never accepted it, and lived with his disappointment in perpetual sadness.

  In simple terms, Vilcabamba remained a mystery.

  Fifty years after Bingham’s failure American Gene Savoy and his team declared they had discovered the real Vilcabamba, at the site known as Espiritu Pampa. They also suggested that Bingham's team had passed through that location themselves, but dismissed it as the wrong place and moved on, stumbling rather fortuitously upon Machu Picchu instead. Other scholars still dispute the claims of Savoy, stating he'd made his declaration in haste and without sufficient scientific evidence. And what’s more, there was still no treasure.

  Ultimately many people, including Hiram Kane and his grandfather, remained steadfast in their belief that the true Vilcabamba was out there, the lost city still undiscovered in the wild mountains of Peru. The Kane family believed they'd be the ones to unravel the greatest of all archaeological mysteries.

  The Trail

  Half an hour after leaving the village Kane and the group were moments from taking their first steps on the trail. At this stage it was Hiram’s custom to pause and say a few words.

  “Gather round, everyone, and listen up,” he said, waiting until they were all close enough to hear. “What we’re about to embark on will be both a physical and emotional challenge, make no bones about it. I don’t want to scare you, but you all know by now that underestimating these challenges is both futile and dangerous. However, we’re very well prepared, and we’re lucky to have along with us the best guide in all Peru.” Kane waved his hand in Sonco’s direction. Sonco responded with a bashful nod. After a quick round of applause, Kane continued. “But despite our best preparation, I always feel it’s prudent to make an offering to the Earth Goddess, Pachamama. Regardless of your faiths, or lack thereof, I hope you’ll humour me in honouring both Pachamama, and the sacred Condor, to protect us on our perilous journey.”

  One of the young Quechuan porters handed each member of the team, including the other porters and Sonco, a cup of corn beer.

  “Please, close your eyes, and repeat after me. Pachamama,” Kane said, and they all repeated, eyes tight shut, “we give you thanks, as your children, for holding us so sweetly in your womb of love and life, as we heal all of our stories, our shadows and our fears.” Kane paused a moment, before continuing. “Now, open your eyes, take a gulp of the beer, and pour a little into the earth as an offering.”

  They all did.

  “Now close your eyes again and repeat.

  Great Condor. Thank you for taking us on your wings to our highest path of destiny. Thank you for showing us the holy mountains, and reminding us to envision our lives from this place.”

  Again, they repeated each line. “Okay, guys, another swig of beer, and pour the rest into the ground.”

  “Are you sure?” Evan chirped up. “What a—”

  “I know, I know,” Kane cut in with a smile. “Ev, before you say anything, to you it must seem like a waste of perfectly good beer, right? But believe me, if it makes Pachamama look with favour upon us, then it’s no waste at all.”

  Nods of agreement all round, and with the short ceremony over the animated expedition members took their first real steps in the mountains. All were animated, that is, except one.

  Angelo De La Cruz thought no one had seen him, but Sonco Amaru possessed the eyes of a condor himself, and had spotted the Spaniard not joining in the solemn prayers. More than that, he saw a scowl on the professor’s face as he silently mouthed different words to those Kane had said. To top it off, he even made the sign of the cross once he’d finished. Hmm, thought the bullish Quechuan guide. Saying prayers to your own god was fine. Sonco respected that. But not taking part in Kane’s traditional prayers and offerings to Pachamama? Well, that was rude. Sonco knew it was also damn stupid. But De La Cruz was Spanish, after all, and Sonco’s sympathies towards the Spanish were understandably slim. He also knew that if Pachamama was watching there would be a whole lot of trouble ahead for this particular Spaniard.

  The sun was already high, and on a clear, late spring day, the air was hot. As it was, they were well prepared and making good time on the gentle ascents of the first day, but despite their preparation Kane wouldn’t push them too hard. Giving them an early false sense of security could be dangerous. Trekking in the Andes was demanding, and the suffocating altitude had been deadly before and would be again. But not on Kane’s watch.

  Kane wasn’t surprised to see Howie Hooper surging ahead of the group. He’d witnessed it before in younger men, pushing on to demonstrate their strength. Kane knew how stupid that kind of machismo could be. Yes, the first few hours and miles on the trails were benign, gently ascending slopes and lots of flat stretches. But that was the problem. Whether a hiker felt it or not, they were still at serious altitude. Time would tell if Hooper would regret his bravado.

  Hours later, as the Andean sun began its daily descent beyond the distant horizon, the now weary hikers rounded a long bend, surprised to walk right into a pre-set camp. The native porters had raced ahead of them and raised the tents, the bright red fabric luminescent in the setting sun.

  No matter how many times he’d worked with Quechuans, their efficiency and ability to operate in the thin air impressed Kane every time. He smiled and shook his head. The big Quechuan cook had already prepared their evening meal, and less than an hour later, with full bellies and exhausted bodies, Kane’s group settled in for an early night.

  It was a successful first day in the Andes Mountains, and in the privacy of his tent Hiram Kane breathed a long sigh of relief and said a silent prayer of thanks to Pachamama.

  2

  Day 2

  Progress

  Until the day’s sun infiltrated the valleys, Andean mornings were crisp bordering on glacial. The group hovered around the campfire, warding off the chills whilst feasting on a simple yet sumptuous breakfast of omelettes and rice, and either tea or coffee, depending on their taste. Or, it seemed to Kane, their nationality. As an Englishman, Kane’s choice of tea was an easy one.

  Breakfast, on what was now their second morning in the mountains, had been prepared as always by Yupanqui, the rangy and well-built Quechuan cook whose size and surprising agility combined to form an impressive man. Yupanqui said little, not even to his fellow Quechuans, and often sat deep in thought while focusing on something with great concentration. An air of mystery hung about the powerful man, a certain aura, as if his mind was truly aligned with the surrounding landscape. He was, after all, a descendent of the Incas, and this was his land and his history. People like Yupanqui formed the very fabric of the Sacred Valley.

  Hiram sat on his rolled up sleeping bag and sipped tea while observing the group from afar. Other than Hooper and the Spanish professor, who remained aloof from the others, they were a good bunch, and Kane was now confident that, at least in a physical sense, they were up to the challenge. The trekking had been reasonably straight forward until now, and he’d kept their pace slow and steady to ease them into the demands.

  Today, however, the difficulty would ramp up from intermediate to formidable. Departing from the more mellow trails, they were heading into thicker, deeper, and steeper terrain, the likes of which all members of this group beyond Kane and Sonco had never attempted. But Kane was excited. It was what he lived for, what he loved to do, and with a confidence born from their progress over the first few days he was itching for the challenge ahead.

  Finishing his tea, Kane stood, and tapped a stone on his empty tin cup. All eyes turned towards him. “I’d like to say a quick well done to you all this morning. You’ve made it through the first stage of the trek, and although it hasn’t been too difficult so far many people drop out at this point and head back to Cuzco, wilted tail between their worn out legs. But from here it gets more difficult. A lot more. The jungle is thicker, the trails narrower, and cliff edges where one slip could cost you your life come along often.” Kane reached into the top of his fleece, pulled out a necklace that held his beloved golden sun disc, and raised it up so everyone could see it. Even in the early morning gloom it shone with almost magical intensity. “This is an artefact from the Sacred Valley. Genuine Inca gold. It’s out there somewhere, the rest of Atahualpa’s hoard, just waiting to be discovered. If Pachamama and Inti wish us well, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Kane turned his gaze to the rising sun in the east. He knelt down and scraped a handful of earth from beneath his feet. Inti and Pachamama. The sun and the earth. A God and Goddess.

  He eyed the team, their eyes fixed on his. “And I believe they do wish us well.” Kane raised his cup, and even the sullen Hooper joined in the toast.

  Kane checked his watch. Quarter past seven. "Good. We have a big day ahead, so eat, and eat well, as history waits for no man… or woman.”

  Conspirators

  Finishing his rice and eggs and grabbing a third mug of coffee, Howie Hooper returned to his tent. Hooper was an athletic man, tall at 6’ 2”. Lean and with wiry strength, his hard face and shaved head suggested a tough life while his gruff countenance did little to soften his appearance. He had few friends and didn’t care. He was his own man, and that was just how he liked it.

  Kate Edgewood gave Hooper a minute, and looking around to check no one was watching she made for his tent. “Howie? It’s me. I’m coming in.”

  Twenty-three-year-old Kate Edgewood was a graduate student at The University of East Anglia’s School of World Art Studies and Museology, or WAM, as it was affectionately known. She’d enjoyed studying under Professor Haines so much as a bachelor’s student that she’d followed that through into a graduate degree. Haines expected a bright future. He knew she had both the talent and a keen passion for the arts and their history, and though he had doubted her credentials for this type of adventure he’d been more than a little impressed so far. He knew she hailed from a wealthy background, but what he didn’t appreciate was just how driven to succeed she was.

  Haines didn’t know it–couldn’t have known it–but Kate Edgewood had many secrets, and only three people alive knew her agenda. Dutchman Dr. Ferdinand Benedix, another professor of some renown at WAM, with whom she’d being having an affair since her second year of university, knew everything. Hooper also knew. The third was the Spaniard, Angelo De La Cruz.

  Benedix was a professor of art history who specialised in pre-Columbian cultures, and had gained some prominence at WAM for his passionate speeches on the legends of Aztec, Mayan, and Incan treasures. It was common knowledge he was a big admirer of the history of the conquistadors, which to some of his peers and students seemed at odds with his admiration for Old World cultures. He brushed the contradictions aside with comments like, “Well, art is art, and culture is culture, and religion is religion. In the end, history shows us the strongest of those cultures and religions always prevailed.” It was a sentiment difficult to argue with. He was popular and well respected among his peers, but what they didn’t know was Benedix harboured secret fundamentalist religious beliefs. For many years he’d known of the ancient Incan Condor Prophecy, and knew that one day the Inca would rise against their European Catholic oppressors. The Dutch professor had plans in place to not only quell that uprising, but turn it back on the Incas, striking at the very heart of their people.