Shannon nodded. "Many still swear that anyone who finds and enters the City of the Dead will be turned to stone."
"Ah yes," Giordino murmured, "the old `cursed be you who disturb my bones' routine."
"Since none of us feels any stiffening of the joints," said Ortiz jovially, "I must assume the evil spirits that frequent the ruins have lost their spell."
"Too bad it didn't work against Amaru and his looters," said Pitt.
Rodgers moved behind Shannon and placed a possessive hand on the nape of her neck. "I understand you're all bidding us goodbye in the morning."
Shannon looked surprised and made no attempt to remove Rodgers's hand. "Is that true?" she said, looking at Pitt. "You're leaving?"
Gunn answered before Pitt. "Yes, we're flying back to our ship before heading north into Ecuador."
"You're not going to search in Equador for the galleon we discussed on the Deep Fathom?" Shannon asked.
"Can you think of a better place?"
"Why Ecuador?" she persisted.
"Al enjoys the climate," Pitt said, clapping Giordino on the back.
Giordino nodded. "I hear the girls are pretty and wild with lust."
Shannon stared at Pitt with a look of interest. "And you?"
"Me?" Pitt murmured innocently. "I'm going for the fishing."
"You sure can pick 'em," said FBI Chief of Interstate Stolen Art Francis Ragsdale, as he eased into the vinyl seat of a booth in a nineteen-fifties-style chrome diner. He studied the selections on the coin-operated music unit that was wired to a Wurlitzer jukebox. "Stan Kenton, Charlie Barnett, Stan Getz. Who ever heard of these guys?"
"Only people who appreciate good music," Gaskill replied sourly to the younger man. He settled his bulk, which filled two-thirds of the seat on his side of the booth.
Ragsdale shrugged. "Before my time." To him, at thirty-four, the great musicians of an earlier era were only vague names mentioned occasionally by his parents. "Come here often?"
Gaskill nodded. "The food really sticks to your ribs."
"Hardly an epicurean recommendation." Clean-shaven, with black wavy hair and a reasonably well-exercised body, Ragsdale had the handsome face, pleasant gray eyes, and bland expression of a soap opera actor automatically reacting to his counterpart's dialogue. A good investigator, he took his job seriously, maintaining the image of the bureau by dressing in a dark business suit that gave him the appearance of a successful Wall Street broker. With a professional eye for detail, he examined the linoleum floor, the round stools at the counter, the period napkin holders and art deco salt and pepper shakers that were parked beside a bottle of Heinz ketchup and a jar of French's mustard. His expression reflected urbane distaste. He would unquestionably have preferred a more trendy restaurant in midtown Chicago.
"Quaint place. Hermetically sealed within the Twilight Zone."
"Atmosphere is half the enjoyment," said Gaskill resignedly.
"Why is it when I pay, we eat in a class establishment, but when it's your turn we wind up in a geriatric beanery?"
"It's knowing I always get a good table."
"What about the food?"
Gaskill smiled. "Best place I know to eat good chicken."
Ragsdale gave him a look just shy of nausea and ignored the menu, mimeographed entrees between sheets of plastic. "I'll throw caution to the winds and risk botulism with a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee."
"Congratulations on solving the Fairchild Museum theft in Scarsdale. I hear you recovered twenty missing Sung dynasty jade carvings."
"Twenty-two. I've got to admit I passed over the least obvious suspect until I drew blanks on all the probables. The seventy-two-year-old director of security. Who would have figured him? He worked at the museum for close to thirty-two years. A record as clean as a surgeon's scrubbed hands. The curator refused to believe it until the old guy broke down and confessed. He had removed the carved figurines one at a time over a period of four years, returning after closing hours, shutting down the alarm system, picking the locks on the cases and lowering the carvings into the bushes beside the building from a bathroom window. He replaced the stolen carvings in the cases with less valuable pieces stored in a basement vault. The catalogue labels were also altered. He even managed to reset the raised stands in their exact positions without leaving telltale dust-free spots on the floor of the cases. Museum officials were more than impressed with his display technique."
The waitress, the archetype of all those who wait on counters and tables in small-town cafes or truck stop restaurants, pencil in funny little cap, jaws furiously grinding gum, and surgical stockings hiding varicose veins, came over, pencil stub poised above a small green pad.
"Dare I ask what your soup of the day is?" inquired Ragsdale loftily.
"Curried lentil with ham and apple."
Ragsdale did a double take. "Did I hear you correctly?"
"Want me to repeat it?"
"No, no, the curried lentil soup will be fine."
The waitress wagged her pencil at Gaskill. "I know what you want." She yelled their orders to an unseen chef in the kitchen in a voice mixed with ground glass and river gravel.
"After thirty-two years," asked Gaskill, continuing the conversation, "what triggered the museum's security chief to go on a burglary binge?"
"A passion for exotic art," answered Ragsdale. "The old guy loved to touch and fondle the figurines when no one was around, but then a new curator made him take a cut in pay as an austerity measure just when he expected a raise. This made him mad and triggered his desire to possess the jade from the exhibits. It seemed from the first the theft could only have been pulled off by a first-rate team of professionals or someone from the inside. I narrowed it down to the senior security director and obtained a warrant to search his house. It was all there on his fireplace mantel, every missing piece, as if they were bowling trophies." '
"Working on a new case?" asked Gaskill.
"Just had one laid in my lap."
"Another museum theft?"
Ragsdale shook his head. "Private collection. The owner went to Europe for nine months. When he returned home, his walls were bare. Eight watercolors by Diego Rivera, the Mexican painter and muralist."
"I've seen the murals he did for the Detroit Institute of Art."
"Insurance company adjusters are foaming at the mouth. It seems the watercolors were insured for forty million dollars."
"We may have to exchange notes on this one."
Ragsdale looked at him. "You think Customs might be interested?"
"A thin possibility we have a connecting case."
"Always glad to have a helping hand."
"I saw photos of what may be your Rivera watercolors in an old box of Stolen Art Bulletins my sister cleaned out of an old house she bought. I'll know when I compare them with your list. If there is a connection, four of your watercolors were reported missing from the University of Mexico in 1923. If they were smuggled into the United States, that makes it a Customs case."
"That's ancient history."
"Not for stolen art," Gaskill corrected him. "Eight months later, six Renoirs and four Gauguins vanished from the Louvre in Paris during an exhibition."
"I gather you're alluding to that old master art thief, what was his name?"
"The Specter," replied Gaskill.
"Our illustrious predecessors in the Justice Department never caught him, did they?"
"Never even made an I. D."
"You think he had a hand in the original theft of the Riveras?"
"Why not? The Specter was to art theft what Raffles was to diamond thefts. And just as melodramatic.
He pulled off at least ten of the greatest art heists in history. A vain guy, he always left his trademark behind."
"I seem to recall reading about a white glove," said Ragsdale.
"That was Raffles. The Specter left a small calendar at the scene of his crimes, with the date of his next theft circled."
"Give the man cr
edit. He was a cocky bastard."
A large, oval plate of what looked like chicken on a bed of rice arrived. Gaskill was also served an appetizing salad on the side. Ragsdale somberly examined the contents of his bowl and looked up at the waitress.
"I don't suppose this greasy spoon serves anything but beer in cans."
The grizzled waitress looked down at him and smiled like an old prostitute. "Honey, we got beer in bottles and we got wine. What'll it be?"
"A bottle of your best burgundy."
"I'll check with the wine steward." She winked through one heavily mascaraed eye before waddling back to the kitchen.
"I forgot to mention the friendly service." Gaskill smiled.
Ragsdale warily dipped a spoon into his soup, suspicion lining his face. He slowly sipped the contents of his spoon as if judging a wine tasting. Then he looked across the booth with widening eyes. "Good heavens. Sherry and pearl onions, garlic cloves, rosemary, and three different kinds of mushrooms. This is delicious." He peered at Gaskill's plate. "What did you order, chicken?"
Gaskill tilted his plate so Ragsdale could see it. "You're close. The house specialty. Broiled marinated quail on a bed of bulgur with currants, scallions, puree of roasted carrots, and leeks with ginger."
Ragsdale looked as if his wife had presented him with triplets. "You conned me."
Gaskill appeared hurt. "I thought you wanted a good place to eat."
"This is fantastic. But where are the crowds? They should be lined up outside."
"The owner and chef, who by the way used to be at the Ritz in London, closes his kitchen on Mondays."
"But why did he open just for us?" Ragsdale asked in awe.
"I recovered his collection of medieval cooking utensils after they were stolen from his former house in England and smuggled into Miami."
The waitress returned and thrust a bottle in front of Ragsdale's face so he could read the label. "Here you go, honey, Chateau Chantilly 1878. You got good taste, but are you man enough to pay eight thousand bucks for the bottle?"
Ragsdale stared at the dusty bottle and faded label and went absolutely numb with surprise. "No, no, a good California cabernet will be fine," he choked out.
"Tell you what, honey. How about a nice medium weight Bordeaux, a 1988 vintage. Say around thirty bucks."
Ragsdale nodded in dumb assent. "I don't believe this."
"I think what really appeals to me about the place," said Gaskill, pausing to savor a bit of quail, "is its incongruity. Who would ever expect to find gourmet food and wine like this in a diner?"
"It's a world apart all right."
"To get back to our conversation," said Gaskill, daintily removing a bone from the quail with his massive hands. "I almost laid my hands on another of the Specter's acquisitions."
"Yes, I heard about your blown stakeout," Ragsdale muttered, having a difficult time bringing his mind back on track. "A Peruvian mummy covered in gold, wasn't it?"
"The Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo."
"Where did you go wrong?"
"Bad timing more than anything. While we were keeping an eye on the owner's penthouse, a gang of thieves acting as furniture movers snatched the mummy from an apartment on a lower floor where it was hidden along with a huge cache of other art and artifacts, all with shady histories."
"This soup is outstanding," Ragsdale said, trying to get the waitress's attention. "I'd better take another look at the menu and order an entree. Have you made up a catalogue yet?"
"End of the week. I suspect there may be between thirty and forty items on your FBI wish list of stolen art in my suspect's underground collection."
The waitress wandered over with the wine and Ragsdale ordered seared salmon with sweet corn, shiitake mushrooms, and spinach. "Good choice, honey," she drawled as she opened the bottle.
Ragsdale shook his head in wonderment before turning his attention back to Gaskill. "What's the name of the collector who squirreled away the hot art?"
"His name is Adolphus Rummel, a wealthy scrap dealer out of Chicago. His name ring a bell?"
"No, but then I've never met a big-time underground buyer and collector who held open house. Any chance Rummel will talk?"
"No way," said Gaskill regretfully. "He's already hired Jacob Morganthaler and is suing to get his confiscated art objects back."
"Jury-rig Jake," Ragsdale said disgustedly. "Friend and champion of indicted black market art dealers and collectors."
"With his acquittal record, we should consider ourselves lucky he doesn't defend murderers and drug dealers."
"Any leads on who stole the golden body suit?"
"None. A clean job. If I didn't know better, I'd say the Specter did it."
Not unless he came back from the dead. He'd have to be well over ninety years old."
Gaskill held up his glass, and Ragsdale poured the wine. "Suppose he had a son, or established a dynasty who carried on the family tradition?"
"That's a thought. Except that no calendars with circled dates have been left at art robberies for over fifty years."
"They could have branched out into smuggling and forgeries and dropped the cornball theatrics.
Today's professionals know that modern investigative technology could easily comb enough evidence out of those hokey calendars to put a collar on them."
"Maybe." Ragsdale paused as the waitress brought his salmon. He sniffed the aroma and gazed in delight at the presentation. "I hope it tastes as good as it looks."
"Guaranteed, honey," the old waitress cackled, "or your money back."
Ragsdale drained his wine and poured another glass. "I can hear your mind clicking from here. Where are you headed?"
"Whoever committed the robbery didn't do it to gain a higher price from another black market collector," Gaskill replied. "I did some research on the golden body suit encasing the mummy.
Reportedly, it was covered with engraved hieroglyphs, illustrating a long voyage by a fleet of Inca ships carrying a vast treasure, including a huge golden chain. I believe the thieves took it so they can trace a path to the mother lode."
"Does the suit tell what happened to the treasure?"
"Legend says it was buried on an island of an inland sea. How's your salmon?"
"The best I've ever eaten," said Ragsdale happily. "And believe you me, that's a compliment. So where do you go from here?"
"The engravings on the suit have to be translated. The Inca did not have a method of writing or illustrating events like the Mayans, but photographs of the suit taken before its earlier theft from Spain show definite indications of a pictorial graphic system. The thieves will need the services of an expert to decode these glyphs. Interpretation of ancient pictographs is not exactly an overcrowded field."
"So you're going to chase down whoever gets the job?"
"Hardly a major effort. There are only five leading specialists. Two of them are a husband and wife team by the name of Moore. They're considered the best in the field."
"You've done your homework."
Gaskill shrugged. "The greed of the thieves is the only lead I've got."
"If you require the services of the bureau," Ragsdale said, "you have only to call me."
"I appreciate that, Francis, thank you."
"There's one other thing."
"Yes?"
"Can you introduce me to the chef? I'd like an inside track on a table for Saturday night."
After a short layover at the Lima airport to pick up the EG&G magnetometer that was flown in from the Deep Fathom by a U.S. Embassy helicopter, Pitt, Giordino, and Gunn boarded a commercial flight to Quito, the capital of Ecuador. It was after two o'clock in the morning when they landed in the middle of a thunderstorm. As soon as they stepped through the gate they were met by a representative of the state oil company, who was acting on behalf of the managing director Gunn had negotiated with for a helicopter.
He quickly herded them into a limousine that drove to the opposite side of the field, followed by
a small van carrying their luggage and electronic equipment. The two-vehicle convoy stopped in front of a fully serviced McDonnell Douglas Explorer helicopter. As they exited the limo, Rudi Gunn turned to express his appreciation, but the oil company official had rolled up the window and ordered the driver to move on.
"Makes one want to lead a clean life," Giordino muttered at the efficiency of it all.
"They owed us bigger than I thought," said Pitt, ignoring the downpour and staring blissfully at the big, red, twin-engined helicopter with no tail rotor.
"Is it a good aircraft?" asked Gunn naively.
"Only the finest rotorcraft in the sky today," replied Pitt. "Stable, reliable, and smooth as oil on water.
Costs about two point seven-five million. We couldn't have asked for a better machine to conduct a search and survey project from the air."
"How far to the Bay of Caraquez?"
"About two hundred and ten kilometers. We can make it in less than an hour with this machine."
"I hope you don't plan to fly over strange terrain in the dark during a tropical storm," Gunn said uneasily, holding a newspaper over his head as a shield against the rain.
Pitt shook his head. "No, we'll wait for first light."
Giordino nodded toward the helicopter. "If I know only one thing, it's not to take a shower with my clothes on. I recommend we throw our baggage and electronic gear on board and get a few hours sleep before dawn."
"That's the best idea I've heard all day," Pitt agreed heartily.
Once their equipment was stowed, Giordino and Gunn reclined the backrests of two passenger seats and fell asleep within minutes. Pitt sat in the pilot's seat under a small lamp and studied the data accumulated by Perlmutter and Yaeger. He was too excited to be tired, certainly not on the eve of a shipwreck search. Most men turn from Jekyll to Hyde whenever the thought of a treasure hunt floods their brain. But Pitt's stimulant was not greed but the challenge of entering the unknown to pursue a trail laid down by adventurous men like him, who lived and died in another era, men who left a mystery for later generations to unravel.
What kind of men walked the decks of sixteenth-century ships, he wondered. Besides the lure of adventure and the remote prospect of riches, what possessed them to sail on voyages sometimes lasting three or more years on ships not much larger than a modest suburban, two-story house? Out of sight of land for months at a time, their teeth falling out from the ravages of scurvy, the crews were decimated by malnutrition and disease. Many were the voyages completed by only ship's officers, who had survived on more abundant rations than the common seamen. Of the eighty-eight men on board the Golden Hind when Drake battled through the Strait of Magellan into the Pacific, only fifty-six were left when he entered Plymouth Harbor.