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

    "This is unbelievable!" he gasped. "You have truly outdone yourself."

    "No dealer anywhere has ever had his hands on such masterworks."

    Vincente went from piece to piece, touching and examining each with a critical eye. Just to feel the embroidered textiles and gold ornaments with their gemstones took Vincente's breath away. It seemed utterly incongruous that such a hoard of wealth was sitting in a corn field in Kansas. At last he finally murmured in awe, "So this is Chachapoyan art."

    "Every piece original and fully authenticated."

    "These treasures all came from graves?"

    "Yes, tombs of royalty and the wealthy."

    "Magnificent."

    "See anything you like?" Zolar asked facetiously.

    "Is there more?" asked Vincente as the excitement wore off and he began to turn his mind toward acquisition.

    "What you see is everything I have that is Chachapoyan."

    "You're not holding back any major pieces?"

    "Absolutely not," Zolar said with righteous resentment. "You have first crack at the entire collection. I will not sell it piecemeal. I don't have to tell you, my friend, there are five other collectors waiting in the wings for such an opportunity."

    "I'll give you four million dollars for the lot."

    "I appreciate the richness of your initial offer. But you know me well enough to understand I never haggle. There is one price, and one price only."

    "Which is?"

    "Six million."

    Vincente cleared several artifacts, making an open space on one table. He opened the briefcases side by side, one at a time. All were filled with closely packed stacks of high denomination bills. "I only brought five million."

    Zolar was not fooled for an instant. "A great pity I have to pass. I can't think of anyone I'd rather have sold the collection to."

    "But I am your best customer," complained Vincente.

    "I can't deny that," said Zolar. "We are like brothers. I am the only man who knows of your secret activities, and you are the only one outside my family who knows mine. Why do you put me through this ordeal every time we deal? You should know better by now."

    Suddenly Vincente laughed and gave a typically Latin shrug. "What is the use? You know I have more money than I can ever spend. Having the artifacts in my possession makes me a happy man. Forgive my bargaining habits. Paying retail was never a tradition in my family."

    "Your reserve supply of cash is still in your aircraft, of course."

    Without a word, Vincente exited the tent and returned in a few minutes with the fourth briefcase. He set it beside the others and opened it. "Six million, five hundred thousand. You said you have some rare religious objects from the American Southwest. Are they included too?"

    "For the extra five hundred thousand you can have them," answered Zolar. "You'll find the Indian religious idols under the glass case in the corner."

    Vincente walked over and removed the glass dust cover. He stared at the strangely shaped gnarled figures. These were no ordinary ceremonial idols. Although they looked as if they had been carved and painted by a young child, he was aware of their significance from long experience of collecting objects from the American Southwest.

    "Hopi?" he asked.

    "No, Montolo. Very old. Very important in their ceremonial rituals."

    Vincente reached down and began to pick one up for a closer look. His heart skipped the next three beats and he felt an icy shroud fall over him. The fingers of his hand did not feel as if they came in contact with the hardened root of a long-dead cottonwood tree. The idol felt more like the soft flesh of a woman's arm. Vincente could have sworn he heard it utter an audible moan.

    "Did you hear that?" he asked, thrusting the idol back in the case as if it had burned his hand.

    Zolar peered at him questioningly. "I didn't hear anything."

    Vincente looked like a man having a nightmare. "Please, my friend, let us finish our business, and then you must leave. I do not want these idols on my property."

    "Does that mean you don't wish to buy them?" Zolar asked, surprised.

    No, no. Spirits are alive in those idols. I can feel their presence."

    "Superstitious nonsense."

    Vincente grasped Zolar by the shoulders, his eyes pleading. "Destroy them," he begged. "Destroy them or they will surely destroy you."

    Under an Indian summer sun, two hundred prime examples of automotive builders' art sat on the green grass of East Potomac Park and glittered like spangles under a theatrical spotlight.

    Staged for people who appreciated the timeless beauty and exacting craftsmanship of coach-built automobiles, and those who simply had a love affair with old cars, the annual Capital Concours de Beaux Moteurcar was primarily a benefit to raise money for child abuse treatment centers around metropolitan Washington. During the weekend the event was held, fifty thousand enthusiastic old-car buffs swarmed into the park to gaze lovingly at the Duesenbergs, Auburns, Cords, Bugattis, and Packards, products of automakers long since gone.

    The atmosphere was heavy with nostalgia. The crowds that strolled the exhibit area and admired the immaculate design and flawless detailing could but wonder about an era and lifestyle when the well-to-do ordered a chassis and engine from a factory and then had the body custom built to their own particular tastes. The younger onlookers dreamed of owning an exotic car someday while those over the age of sixty-five fondly recalled seeing them driven through the towns and cities of their youth.

    The cars were classified by year, body style, and country of origin. Trophies were awarded to the best of their class and plaques to the runners-up. "Best of show" was the most coveted award. A few of the wealthier owners spent hundreds of thousands of dollars restoring their pride and joy to a level of perfection far beyond the car's original condition on the day it rolled out of the factory.

    Unlike the more conservatively dressed owners of other cars, Pitt sat in an old-fashioned canvas lawn chair wearing a flowered Hawaiian aloha shirt, white shorts, and sandals. Behind him stood a gleaming, dark blue 1936 Pierce Arrow berline (sedan body with a divider window) that was hitched to a 1936 Pierce Arrow Travelodge house trailer painted a matching color.

    In between answering questions from passersby about the car and trailer, he had his nose buried in a thick boater's guide to the Sea of Cortez. Occasionally he jotted notes on a long pad of legal notepaper, yellow with blue-ruled lines. None of the islands listed and illustrated in the guide matched the steeply sided slopes of the monolithic outcropping that Yaeger had gleaned out of the Drake quipu. Only a few showed sheer walls. A number of them inclined sharply from the surrounding water, but instead of rising in the shape of a Chinese hat or a Mexican sombrero, they flattened out into mesas.

    Giordino, wearing baggy khaki shorts that dropped to just above his knees and a T-shirt advertising Alkali Sam's Tequila, approached the Pierce Arrow through the crowd. He was accompanied by Loren, who looked sensational in a turquoise jumpsuit. She was carrying a picnic basket while Giordino balanced an ice chest on one shoulder.

    I hope you're hungry," she said brightly to Pitt. "We bought half ownership in a delicatessen."