Temple

side of the moat. A length of rope was attached to one end of it in a manner not unlike that which had applied to the rope bridge down at the rock tower. It stretched out over the moat to Race's side, where it was tied to a stake in the ground.

Van Lewen and Doogie pulled on the rope, manoeuvred the log-bridge into position so that it now spanned the moat.

The eight of them then crossed the bridge and entered the section of low foliage surrounding the village.

Once they were all over the bridge, Van Lewen and Doogie quickly pulled it back onto the village side of the moat, so that the rapas could not follow them oven

They all came out from the foliage together, emerging onto a wide, town square-like clearing. They cast the beams of their flashlights over the thatch huts and tall trees that surrounded the bare dirt clearing.

At the northern end of the square stood a bamboo cage, its four corners comprised of four thick tree trunks. Beyond the cage—carved out of the muddy wall of the moat—was a large pit about thirty feet square and fifteen feet deep. A criss-crossing bamboo gate separated the pit from the moat itself.

In the very centre of the town square, however, stood the most arresting sight of all.

It was a shrine of some sort, a large wooden altar-like structure that had been carved out of the trunk of the widest tree in the village.

It was filled with nooks and small alcoves. Inside the alcoves Race saw a collection of relics that was nothing short of spectacular—a golden crown embedded with sapphires, silver and gold statues of Incan warriors and maidens, var ious stone idols, and one gigantic ruby that was easily the size of a man's fist.

Even in the semi-darkness, the shrine shone, its treasures glistening in the moonlight. Dense clusters of leaves hung down from the trees around it, framing it on either side like curtains in a theatre.

In the very centre of the wooden shrine—right where its heart would have been—sat the most elaborate nook of all.

It was covered by a small curtain and was quite obviously the centrepiece of the whole altar. But whatever occupied it lay hidden from view.

Nash strode directly over to it. Race knew what he was thinking. With a sharp yank, Nash pulled the curtain cover ing the nook aside.

And he saw it. Race saw it too, and gasped.

It was the idol.

The real idol.

The Spirit of the People.

The sight of it took Race's breath away. Strangely, the first thing that struck him about the idol was what an excellent job Bassario had done in replicating it—his fake idol had been a perfect reproduction. But no matter how hard he had tried, Bassario had been unable to reproduce the aura that surrounded the real idol.

It was majesty personified.

The ferocity of the rapa's head inspired terror. The glint of the purple-and-black thyrium stone inspired wonder. The whole shining idol just inspired awe.

Entranced, Nash reached out to pick it up—at exactly the same moment as a sharpened stone arrowhead appeared next to his head.

The arrow was held by a very angry-looking native who had stepped out from the curtain-like foliage to the right of the shrine. He held the arrow poised in his longbow, its drawstring stretched taut back to his ear.

Van Lewen made to raise his G-11, just as the forest all around him came alive and out of it stepped no fewer than fifty natives.

Nearly all of them brandished bows and arrows, all of them aimed squarely at Race and the others.

Van Lewen still had his gun up. Doogie didn't. He just stood rooted to the spot a few yards away, frozen.

An uneasy stand-off materialised. Van Lewen—armed with a gun that could kill twenty men in an instant—facing off against the fifty-plus natives armed with bows and arrows that were all ready to be fired.

There are too many of them, Race thought. Even if Van Lewen did manage to get a few shots off, it wouldn't be enough. The natives would still kill them all, so over whelming were their numbers.

'Van Lewen,' Race said. “Don't…'

'Sergeant Van Lewen,' Nash said from over by the altar, where he stood with an arrow poised next to his head.

'Lower your weapon.”

Van Lewen did so. As soon as he did, the natives immediately moved forward, seized the Americans' high-powered weapons.

An older-looking man with a long grey beard and wrinkled olive skin stepped forward. He didn't bother carrying a long bow. He appeared to be the chieftain of this tribe.

Another man walked at the chieftain's side and as soon as he saw him, Race blinked in disbelief.

This second man wasn't a native at all, but rather was a stout-looking Latin-American man. He was deeply tanned and dressed in the manner of the Indians, but even the liberal doses of ceremonial paint that he wore on his face and chest couldn't hide his decidedly urban features.

As the chieftain glared at Nash—standing in front of the shrine like a thief caught with his hands in the till—he growled something in his native tongue.

The Latin-American man at his side listened attentively and then offered some advice in reply.