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

    "Why would federal agents take your word for anything?" asked Oxley."

    "In a manner of speaking, Micki and I were once agents ourselves," Moore briefly explained. "After we took over the cockpit, Micki radioed some old friends in Washington who arranged your reception."

    Zolar looked as if he were about to tear Moore's lungs out whether he got shot in the attempt or not. "You and your lying wife made a deal for a share of the antiquities. Am I right?" He waited for a reply, but when Moore remained silent he went on. "What percentage did they offer you? Ten, twenty, maybe as high as fifty percent?"

    "We made no deals with the government," Moore said slowly. "We knew you had no intention of honoring our agreement, and that you planned to kill us. We had planned to steal the treasure for ourselves, but as you can see, we had a change of heart."

    "The way they act familiar with guns," said Oxley, "Cyrus was right. They are a pair of killers."

    Moore nodded in agreement. "Your brother has an inner eye. It takes an assassin to know one."

    A pounding came from outside the forward passenger door on the deck below. Moore gestured down the stairwell with his gun. "Go down and open it," he ordered Zolar and Oxley.

    Sullenly, they did as they were told.

    When the pressurized door was swung open, two men entered from a stairway that had been pushed up against the aircraft. Both wore business suits. One was a huge black man who looked as if he might have played professional football. The other was a nattily dressed white man. Zolar immediately sensed they were federal agents.

    "Joseph Zolar and Charles Oxley, I am Agent David Gaskill with the Customs Service and this is Agent Francis Ragsdale of the FBI. You gentlemen are under arrest for smuggling illegal artifacts into the United States and for the theft of countless art objects from private and public museums, not excluding the unlawful forgery and sale of antiquities."

    "What are you talking about?" Zolar demanded.

    Gaskill ignored him and looked at Ragsdale with a big toothy smile. "Would you like to do the honors?"

    Ragsdale nodded like a kid who had just been given a new disk player. "Yes, indeed, thank you."

    As Gaskill cuffed Zolar and Oxley, Ragsdale read them their rights.

    "You made good time," said Moore. "We were told you were in Calexico."

    "We were on our way aboard a military jet fifteen minutes after word came down from FBI headquarters in Washington," replied Ragsdale.

    Oxley looked at Gaskill, a look for the first time empty of fear and shock, a sudden look of shrewdness. "You'll never find enough evidence to convict us in a hundred years."

    Ragsdale tilted his head toward the golden cargo. "What do you call that?"

    "We're merely passengers," said Zolar, regaining his composure. "We were invited along for the ride by Professor Moore and his wife."

    "I see. And suppose you tell me where all the stolen art and antiquities in your facility in Galveston came from?"

    Oxley sneered. "Our Galveston warehouse is perfectly legitimate. You've raided it before and never found a thing."

    If that's the case," said Ragsdale craftily, "how do you explain the tunnel leading from the Logan Storage Company to Zolar International's subterranean warehouse of stolen goods?"

    The brothers stared at each other, their faces abruptly gray. "You're making this up," said Zolar fearfully.

    "Am I? Would you like me to describe your tunnel in detail and provide a brief rundown on the stolen masterworks we found?"

    "The tunnel-- you couldn't have found the tunnel."

    "As of thirty-six hours ago," said Gaskill, "Zolar International and your clandestine operation known as Solpemachaco are permanently out of business."

    Ragsdale added. "A pity your dad, Mansfield Zolar, aka the Specter, isn't still alive or we could bust him too."

    Zolar looked as if he were in the throes of cardiac arrest. Oxley appeared too paralyzed to move.

    "By the time you two and the rest of your family, partners, associates, and buyers get out of prison, you'll be as old as the artifacts you stole."

    Federal agents began filling the aircraft. The FBI took charge of the air crew and Zolar's serving lady while the Customs people unbuckled the tie-down straps securing the golden artifacts. Ragsdale nodded to his team.

    "Take them downtown to the U.S. Attorney's Office." As soon as the shattered art thieves were led into two different cars, the agents turned to the Moores.

    "I can't tell you how grateful we are for your cooperation," said Gaskill. "Nailing the Zolar family will put a huge dent in the art theft and artifact smuggling trade."

    "We're not entirely benevolent," said Micki, happily relieved. "Henry feels certain the Peruvian government will post a reward."

    Gaskill nodded. "I think you've got a sure bet."

    "The prestige of being the first to catalogue and photograph the treasure will go a long way toward enhancing our scientific reputations," Henry Moore explained as he holstered his gun.

    "Customs would also like a detailed report on the objects, if you don't mind?" asked Gaskill.

    Moore nodded vigorously. "Micki and I will be happy to work with you. We've already inventoried the treasure. We'll have a report for you before it's formally returned to Peru."

    "Where will you store it all until then?" asked Micki.

    "In a government warehouse whose location we can't reveal," answered Gaskill.

    "Is there any news on Congresswoman Smith and the little man with NUMA?"

    Gaskill nodded. "Minutes before you landed we received word they were rescued by a local tribe of Indians and are on their way to a local hospital."

    Micki sank down into a passenger seat and sighed. "Then it's over."

    Henry sat on an armrest and took her hand in his. "It is for us," he said gently. "From now on we'll live the rest of our lives together as a pair of old teachers in a university with vine-covered walls."

    She looked up at him. "Is that so terrible?"

    "No," he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead, "I think we can handle it."

    Slowly climbing from the depths of a dead stupor, Pitt felt as if he were struggling up a mud-slick slope, only to slip back every time he reached out and touched consciousness. He tried to retain a grip on these brief moments of awareness, only to fall back into a void. If he could open his eyes, he thought vaguely, he might return to reality. Finally, with a mighty effort, he forced open his eyelids.

    Seeing only grave-cold blackness, he shook his head in despair, thinking he had fallen back into the void. And then the pain came rushing back like a burst of fire, and he came fully awake. Rolling sideways and then forward into a sitting position, he swung his head from side to side, trying to shake off the fog that clung to the alcoves of his mind. He renewed his fight with the pounding ache in his shoulder, the stiff hurt in his chest, and the sting from his wrist. Tenderly he felt the gash on his forehead.

    "A hell of a fine specimen of manhood you are," he muttered.

    Pitt was surprised to find that he didn't feel overly weak from loss of blood. He unclipped from his forearm the flashlight that Giordino had given him after their drop over the falls, switched it on, and propped it in the sand so the beam was aimed at his upper torso. He unzipped his wet suit jacket and tenderly probed the wound in his shoulder. The bullet had passed through the flesh and out his back without striking the scapula or the clavicle. The neoprene rubber on his shredded but still nearly skintight wet suit had helped seal the opening and restrict the flow of blood. Relieved that he did not feel as drained as he thought he would, he relaxed and took stock of his situation. His chances of survival were somewhere beyond impossible. With 100 kilometers (62 miles) of unknown rapids, sharp cascades, and extensive river passages that passed through caverns completely immersed with water, he did not need a palmist to tell him that the life line running across his hand would halt long before he reached senior citizenship. Even if he had air passages the entire way, there was still the distance from the opening of the subterranean channel to the surface of the Gulf.