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

    A very sleepy voice croaked, "Francis Ragsdale here."

    "Gaskill."

    "Jesus, Dave. Why so early?"

    "Who's that?" came the slurred voice of Ragsdale's wife over the receiver.

    "Dave Gaskill."

    "Doesn't he know it's Sunday?"

    "Sorry to wake you," said Gaskill, "but I have good news that couldn't wait."

    "All right," Ragsdale mumbled through a yawn. "Let's hear it."

    "I can tell you the name of the Specter."

    "Who?"

    "Our favorite art thief."

    Ragsdale came fully awake. "The Specter? You made an I.D.?"

    "Not me. A retired inspector from Scotland Yard."

    "A limey made him?"

    "He spent a lifetime writing an entire book on the Specter. Some of it's conjecture but he's compiled some pretty convincing evidence."

    "What does he have?"

    Gaskill cleared his throat for effect. "The name of the greatest art thief in history was Mansfield Zolar."

    "Say again?"

    "Mansfield Zolar. Mean anything to you?"

    "You're running me around the park."

    "Swear on my badge."

    "I'm afraid to ask--"

    "Don't bother," Gaskill interrupted. "I know what you're thinking. He was the father."

    "Good lord, Zolar International. This is like finding the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle that fell on matching carpet. The Zolars, or whatever cockamamie names they call themselves. It all begins to fit."

    "Like bread crumbs to the front door."

    "You were right during lunch the other day. The Specter did sire a dynasty of rotten apples who carried on the tradition."

    "We've had Zolar International under surveillance on at least four occasions that I can recall, but it always came up clean. I never guessed a connection to the legendary Specter."

    "Same with the bureau," said Ragsdale. "We've always suspected they were behind just about every seven figure art and artifact theft that goes down, but we've been unable to find enough evidence to indict any one of them."

    "You have my sympathy. No evidence of stolen goods, no search warrant or arrest."

    "Little short of a miracle how an underground business as vast as the Zolars' can operate on such a widespread scale and never leave a clue."

    "They don't make mistakes," said Gaskill.

    "Have you tried to get an undercover agent inside?" asked Ragsdale.

    "Twice. They were wise almost immediately. If I wasn't certain my people are solid, I'd have sworn they were tipped off."

    "We've never been able to penetrate them either. And the collectors who buy the hot art are just as tight-lipped and cautious."

    "And yet we both know the Zolars launder stolen artifacts like drug dealers launder money."

    Ragsdale was silent for a few moments. Finally he said, "I think it's about time we stop meeting for lunch to exchange notes and start working together on a full-time basis."

    "I like your style," Gaskill acknowledged. "I'll start the ball rolling on my end by submitting a proposal for a joint task force to my superior as soon as I hit the office."

    "I'll do likewise on my end."

    "Why don't we set up a combined meeting with our teams, say Thursday morning?"

    "Sounds like a winner," agreed Ragsdale.

    "That should give us time to lay the initial groundwork."

    "Speaking of the Specter, did you track down the stolen Diego Riveras? You mentioned over lunch that you might have a lead on them."

    "Still working on the case," Gaskill replied. "But it's beginning to look like the Riveras went to Japan and ended up in a private collection."

    "What do you want to bet the Zolars set up the buy?"

    "If they did, there will be no trail. They use too many front organizations and intermediaries to handle the sale. We're talking the superstars of crime. Since old Mansfield Zolar pulled off his first heist, no one in the family has ever been touched by you, by me, by any other law enforcement agency in the world. They've never seen the inside of a courtroom. They're so lily white it's disgusting."

    "We'll take them down this time," Ragsdale said encouragingly.

    "They're not the type to make mistakes we can use to our advantage," said Gaskill.

    "Maybe, maybe not. But I've always had the feeling that an outsider, someone not directly connected with you, me, or the Zolars, will come along and short-circuit their system."

    "Whoever he is, I hope he shows up quick. I'd hate to see the Zolars retire to Brazil before we can drop the axe on their necks."

    "Now that we know Papa was the founder of the operation, and how he operated, we'll have a better idea of what to look for."

    "Before we ring off," said Ragsdale, "tell me, did you ever tie an expert translator to the golden mummy suit that slipped through your hands?"

    Gaskill winced. He didn't like to be reminded. "All known experts on such glyphs have been accounted for except two. A pair of anthropologists from Harvard, Dr. Henry Moore and his wife. They've dropped from sight. None of their fellow professors or neighbors have a clue to their whereabouts."

    Ragsdale laughed. "Be nice to catch them playing cozy with one of the Zolars."

    "I'm working on it."

    "Good luck."

    "Talk to you soon," said Gaskill.

    "I'll call you later this morning."

    "Make it this afternoon. I have an interrogation beginning at nine o'clock."

    "Better yet," said Ragsdale, "you call me when you have something in the works for a joint conference."

    "I'll do that."

    Gaskill hung up smiling. He had no intention of going into the office this morning. Getting agency sanction for a joint task force with the FBI would be more complicated on Ragsdale's end than Gaskill's. After reading all night, he was going to enjoy a nice, mind-settling sleep.

    He loved it when a case that died from lack of evidence one minute abruptly popped back to life again. He began to see things more clearly. It was a nice feeling to be in control. Motivation stimulated by incentive was a wonderful thing.

    Where had he heard that, he wondered. A Dale Carnegie class? A Customs Service policy instructor? Before it came back to him, he was sound asleep.

    Pedro Vincente set down his beautifully restored DC-3 transport onto the runway of the airport at Harlingen, Texas. He taxied the fifty-five-year-old aircraft down to the front of the U.S. Customs Service hangar and shut down the two 1200-horsepower, Pratt & Whitney engines.

    Two uniformed Customs agents were waiting when Vincente opened the passenger door and stepped to the ground. The taller of the two, with red hair mussed by a breeze and a face full of freckles, held a clipboard above his eyes to shield them from the bright Texas sun. The other was holding a beagle by a leash.

    "Mr. Vincente?" the agent asked politely. "Pedro Vincente?"

    "Yes, I'm Vincente."

    "We appreciate your alerting us of your arrival into the United States."

    "Always happy to cooperate with your government," Vincente said. He would have offered to shake hands, but he knew from previous border crossings the agents steered clear of bodily contact. He handed the redheaded agent a copy of his flight plan.