Inca Gold - Cussler Clive (читать онлайн полную книгу .TXT) 📗

    Sarason's amazement quickly wore off. "Very clever of those ancient bastards," he charged. "Storing the treasure on an island surrounded by a strong current makes recovery doubly complicated."

    "Yes, but we've got cables and winches," said Moore.

    INCA GOLD

    "Think of the difficulty they had in moving all that gold over there with nothing but hemp rope and muscle."

    Micki spied a golden monkey crouched on a pedestal. "That's odd."

    Zolar looked at her. "What's odd?"

    She stepped closer to the monkey and its pedestal which was lying on its side. "Why would this piece still be on this bank of the river?"

    "Yes, it does seem strange this object wasn't placed with the others," said Moore. "It almost looks as if it was thrown here."

    Sarason pointed to gouges in the sand and calcium crystals beside the riverbank. "I'd say it was dragged off the island."

    "It has writing scratched on it," said Moore.

    "Can you decipher anything?" asked Zolar.

    "Doesn't need deciphering. The markings are in English."

    Sarason and Zolar stared at him with the expressions of Wall Street bankers walking along the sidewalk and being asked by a homeless derelict if they could spare fifty thousand dollars. "No jokes, Professor," said Zolar.

    "I'm dead serious. Somebody engraved a message into the soft gold on the bottom of the pedestal, quite recently by the looks of it."

    "What does it say?"

    Moore motioned for an engineer to aim his lamp at the monkey's pedestal, adjusted his glasses and began reading aloud.

Welcome members of the Solpemachaco to the underground thieves and plunderers annual convention.

If you have any ambitions in life other than the acquisition of stolen loot, you have come to the right place.

Be our guests and take only the objects you can use.

Your congenial sponsors,

Dr. Shannon Kelsey, Miles Rodgers, Al Giordino, & Dirk Pitt.

There was a moment of sober realization, and then Zolar snarled at his brother. "What in hell is going on here? What kind of foolish trick is this?"

    Sarason's mouth was pinched in a bitter line. "Pitt admitted leading us to the demon," he answered reluctantly, "but he said nothing of entering the mountain and laying eyes on the treasure."

    "Generous with his information, wasn't he? Why didn't you tell me this?"

    Sarason shrugged. "He's dead. I didn't think it mattered."

    Micki turned to her husband. "I know Dr. Kelsey. I met her at an archaeology conference in San Antonio. She has a splendid reputation as an expert on Andean cultures."

    Moore nodded. "Yes, I'm familiar with her work." He stared at Sarason. "You led us to believe Congresswoman Smith and the men from NUMA were merely on a treasure hunt. You said nothing of involvement by professional archaeologists."

    "Does it make any difference?"

    "Something is going on beyond your control," warned Moore. He looked as if he was enjoying the Zolars' confusion. "If I were you, I'd get the gold out of here as fast as possible."

    His words were punctuated by a muffled explosion far up into the passageway.

    "We have nothing to fear so long as Pitt is dead," Sarason kept insisting. "What you see here was done before Amaru put a stop to him." But he was damp with cold sweat. Pitt's mocking words rang in his ears, "You've been set up, pal."

    Zolar's features slowly altered. The mouth tightened and the set of the jaw seemed to recede, the eyes became apprehensive. "Nobody discovers a treasure on the magnitude of this one, leaves behind a ridiculous message, and then walks away from it. These people have a method to their madness, and I for one would like to know their plan."

    "Any man who stands in our way before the treasure is safely off the mountain will be destroyed," Sarason shouted at his brother. "That is a promise."

    The words came forcefully, with the ring of a bullet resistant threat. They all believed him. Except Micki Moore.

    She was the only one standing close enough to see his lips quiver.

    Bureaucrats from around the world looked the same, Pitt thought. The fabricated meaningless smile betrayed by the patronizing look in the eyes. They must have all gone to the same school and memorized the same canned speech of evasive phrases. This one was bald, wore thick hornrimmed glasses, and had a black moustache with each bristle exactingly trimmed.

    A tall, complacent man, whose profile and haughtiness reminded the Americans seated around the conference room of a Spanish conquistador, Fernando Matos was the very essence of a condescending, fence-and-dodge bureaucrat. He stared at the Americans in the Customs building less than 100 meters (328 feet) from the international border.

    Admiral James Sandecker, who had arrived from Washington shortly after Gaskill and Ragsdale flew in from Galveston, stared back and said nothing. Shannon, Rodgers, and Giordino were relegated to chairs against one wall while Pitt sat at Sandecker's right. They left the talking to the chief Customs agent of the region, Curtis Starger.

    A veteran of sixteen years with the service, Starger had been around the Horn enough times to have seen it all. He was a trim, handsome man with sharp features and blond hair. He looked more like an aging lifeguard on a San Diego beach than a hardened agent who gazed at Matos with an expression that could scorch asbestos. After the introductions were made, he launched his attack.

    "I'll skip the niceties, Mr. Matos. On matters such as this I'm used to dealing with your elite law enforcement agents, especially Inspector Granados and the chief of your Northern Mexico Investigative Division, Sefior Rojas. I wish you would explain, sir, why a midlevel official from an obscure office of the National Affairs Department was sent to brief us on the situation. I get the feeling that your national government in Mexico City is as much in the dark as we are."

    Matos made a helpless gesture with his hands. His eyes never blinked, and his smile remained fixed. If he felt insulted, it didn't show. "Inspector Granados is working on a case in Hermosillo and Sefior Rojas was taken ill."

    "Sorry to hear it," Starger grunted insincerely.

    "If they were not indisposed or on duties elsewhere, I'm certain they would have been happy to consult with you. I share your frustration. But I assure you, my government will do everything in its power to cooperate on this matter."

    "The United States Attorney's Office has reason to believe that three men going under the names of Joseph Zolar, Charles Oxley, and Cyrus Sarason, all brothers, are conducting a massive international operation dealing in stolen art, smuggled artifacts, and art forgery. We also have reason to believe they have abducted one of our respected congressional legislators and an official of our most prestigious marine science agency."

    Matos smiled blandly behind his bureaucratic defenses. "Utterly ridiculous. As you very well know, gentlemen, after your fruitless raid on the Zolars' facilities in Texas, their reputation remains untarnished."

    Gaskill smiled wryly at Ragsdale. "News travels fast."

    "These men you seem intent on persecuting have violated no laws in Mexico. We have no legal cause to investigate them."