Kipu threw his spear, but suddenly many shots were being fired and the ground next to him was bursting with dust. He ran toward the edge of the forest. The bullet hit him in the leg before he reached it, but he dove into the bushes before the men running after him could catch him.

The natives had all fled into their canoes. Diatri and the others stood on the half-burned hulk of the Esmeralda. One of the SEALs held up a line with some pennants on it. "Commander?"

Diatri and the commander inspected it. "What is it?" Diatri asked.

"This is a code pennant, this is 'S,' this is 'Q,' this is 'I.'"

"So?"

"It's the international signal code. It means: 'You should stop or heave to or I will open fire on you.'"

Diatri sighed. "Looks like they didn't listen."

He made his way into the ship. She was partially heeled over on her side, making it like a walk through the fun house at the carnival. The top deck was gone. The main salon had the sour stink of burned leather. They'd stripped almost everything off her; it looked like they'd been working on pulling up the carpet when they ran off. He continued down another flight of stairs to the cabins. The passageway was dark. He turned on his flashlight, holding it away from his body as he'd been trained. On either side of the passageway were framed front pages of newspapers from the day after the Titanic sank. Diatri thought that was a strange thing to have on your boat. He made his way aft, to the master cabin.

It was stripped of everything, sheets, blankets, wall sconces, mattress, clothes. Somewhere in the jungle they were wearing cashmere blazers and ascots and whatever else rich people wear. Bermuda shorts? That would be a sight, Diatri thought, natives sitting around the fire arguing over how to make a really dry martini.

They'd torn the radio and intercom system out of the bedside table. Diatri peered into the gaping hole and saw a dead cricket on its back. Diatri reached in and removed him. Big little guy. How had he gotten in there?

He opened the drawer. There was a book inside: History of the Conquest of Peru, by William H. Prescott. He flipped through the pages. Mr. Becker-it was funny, but that's how he thought of him, as "Mr. Becker," maybe because he was rich-had underlined a lot. He came to a page that was almost all underlined and read:

"When the sentence was communicated to the Inca, he was greatly overcome by it. 'What have I done, or my children, that I should meet such a fate? And from your hands, too,' said he, addressing Pizarro; 'you, who have shared my treasures, who have received nothing but benefits from my hands!'"

"An eyewitness assures us that Pizarro was visibly affected, as he turned away from the Inca."

"When Atahuallpa was bound to the stake, with the fagots that were to kindle his funeral pile lying around him, Father Valverde, holding up the cross, besought him to embrace it and be baptized, promising that, by so doing, the painful death to which he had been sentenced should be commuted for the milder form of the garrote-a mode of punishment by strangulation, used for criminals in Spain."

"The unhappy monarch asked if this were really so, and, on its being confirmed by Pizarro, he consented to abjure his own religion, and receive baptism."

"Atahuallpa expressed a desire that his remains might be transported to Quito, the place of his birth, to be preserved with those of his maternal ancestors. Then turning to Pizarro, as a last request, he implored him to take compassion on his young children, and receive them under his protection. Was there no other one in that dark company who stood grimly around him, to whom he could look for the protection of his offspring? Perhaps he thought there was no other so competent to afford it, and that the wishes so solemnly expressed in that hour might meet with respect even from his Conqueror. Then, recovering his stoical bearing, which for a moment had been shaken, he submitted himself calmly to his fate,-while the Spaniards, gathering around, muttered their credos for the salvation of his soul! Thus by the death of a vile malefactor perished the last of the Incas!"

Next to the bottom of the paragraph, Mr. Becker had written "Disgraceful!"

Diatri heard a sound. He crept forward along the dark passageway, gun drawn, toward the source of the noise. At the head of the passageway he found the wine cellar. The bottles were gone. He shone his light down. The native looked up at him and smiled. He was smashed. A giant bottle of wine, the kind they name after Abyssinian kings was lying across his chest. It was the biggest bottle of wine Diatri had ever seen. The native sang:

He carried him, still singing, out onto the deck. The JUNC leader began to interrogate him in Spanish. "Where are the gringos?"

Diatri said in Spanish, "You're not going to get anything out of him."

The JUNC leader shook him. "Where are the gringos?"

"Hey," said Diatri. "Easy. He doesn't know anything."

"Stay out of this, Diatri," the JUNC leader shot back. The native stopped singing. He looked confused. They were all wearing Peruvian military uniforms. Why were they speaking English?

Diatri said, "I said, let him alone."

"Fuck off, Diatri. This isn't your business."

"You touch him again I'll make it your business."

"Stand down, both of you!" The commander.

Diatri stormed off forward. He went to the bridge.

There was rubble all over, shot-out windows, splinters of wood, pieces of metal, chunks of fiberglass. Everything useful had been stripped by the natives.

He saw a piece of chart sticking out from underneath-it looked like a stone slab. He saw the brackets on the rear bulkhead-it had come off the wall. He tried to lift it. Too heavy. One of the SEALs was standing watch on the bow. Diatri shouted. "Give me a hand with this, would you?"

The SEAL lifted it easily and leaned it against the remains of the cabinet. These SEALs, they were in extremely good shape.

It was an old stone of some kind, with figures engraved into it in a way that made them seem raised. A giant with one eye was hurling large rocks at some people in a sort of rowboat. The rocks were landing near them, lifting the boat up on the waves they created. Diatri stared more closely. Something was wrong with the giant's eye. It was like he was crying. The guy who seemed to be in charge of the rowboat was gesturing at the giant with a kind of Va fangool!

Diatri examined the chart that had been underneath. There were other things: a V-shaped stick of plastique, it looked like a box of computer chips, and a small black box with switches and a red button. The SEAL left. The SOLIC commander appeared in the doorway a few moments later, while Diatri was spreading the chart out on the deck.

It was a Defense Hydrographic Agency navigational chart. He saw "Yenan" written in red felt-tip ink over a spot west of the river. The commander peered over his shoulder.

"Yenan?" said Diatri.

"It's a town in China," said the commander. "Shaanxi province. It's where Mao and Zhou Enlai ended the Long March. It's a holy place, like Concord or Lexington. It was their headquarters from '36 to '47. They launched the final phase of the revolution from there."

"So this guy is into Chinese?"

The commander said, "The only real Maoists left are in Peru."