按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
〃I'm looking for a lost Spanish galleon in a jungle。〃
〃But of course； what else？〃 Yaeger said with routine resignation。 He had learned long before never to anticipate Pitt。
〃I'm hoping you can find me a ballpark to search。〃
〃As a matter of fact； through clean living and moral thinking； I can already narrow your field of search by a wide margin。〃
〃What do you know that I don't？〃
Yaeger smiled to himself。 〃The lowlands between the west flank of the Andes and the coast of Peru have an average temperature of eighteen degrees Celsius or sixty…five degrees Fahrenheit and an annual rainfall that would hardly fill a shot glass； making it one of the world's coldest and driest low altitude deserts。 No jungle for a ship to get lost in there。〃
〃So what's your hot spot？〃 asked Pitt。
〃Ecuador。 The coastal region is tropical all the way to Panama。〃
〃A precision display of deductive reasoning。 You're okay； Hiram。 I don't care what your ex…wives say about you。〃
A mere trifle。 I'll have something for you in twenty…four hours。〃
〃I'll be in touch。〃
As soon as he put down the phone； Yaeger began assembling his thoughts。 He never failed to find the novelty of a shipwreck search stimulating。 The areas he planned to investigate were neatly filed in the puter of his mind。 During his years with NUMA； he had discovered that Dirk Pitt didn't walk through life like other men。 Simply working with Pitt and supplying data information had been one long； intrigue…filled； vicarious adventure； and Yaeger took pride in the fact that he had never fumbled the ball that was passed to him。
As Pitt was making plans to search for a landlocked Spanish galleon； Adolphus Rummel； a noted collector of South American antiquities； stepped out of the elevator into his plush penthouse apartment twenty floors above Lake Shore Drive in Chicago。 A short； stringy man with a shaven head and an enormous walrus moustache； Rummel was in his midseventies and looked more like a Sherlock Holmes villain than the owner of six huge auto salvage yards。
Like many of his extremely wealthy peers who pulsively amassed priceless collections of antiquities from the black market with no questions asked； Rummel was unmarried and reclusive。 No one was ever allowed to view his pre…Columbian artifacts。 Only his accountant and attorney were aware of their existence； but they had no idea of how extensive his inventory was。
In the nineteen fifties German…born Rummel smuggled a cache of Nazi ceremonial objects across the Mexican border。 The contraband included presentation daggers and knights…cross medals awarded to Germany's greatest World War II heroes； as well as a number of historic documents signed by Adolf Hitler and his maniacal cronies。 Selling his hoard to collectors of Nazi artifacts at premium prices； Rummel took the profits and launched an auto junkyard that he built into a scrap metal empire； netting him nearly 250 million dollars over forty years。
After a business trip to Peru in 1974； he developed an interest in ancient South American art and began buying from dealers； honest or criminal。 Source did not matter to him。 Corruption was as mon as rain in a jungle among the brotherhood of artifact finders and sellers throughout Central and South America。 Rummel gave no thought to whether his acquired pieces were legally excavated but sold out the back door； or stolen from a museum。 They were for his satisfaction and enjoyment； and his alone。
He walked past the Italian marble walls of his foyer and approached a large mirror with a thick gilded frame covered with naked cherubs entwined around a continuous grapevine。 Twisting the head of a cherub in one corner； Rummel sprang the catch that unlatched the mirror； revealing a concealed doorway。 Behind the mirror a stairway led down into eight spacious rooms lined with shelves and filled with tables supporting at least thirty glass cases packed with more than two thousand ancient pre…Columbian artifacts。 Reverently； as if walking down the aisle of a church toward the altar； he moved about the gallery； cherishing the beauty and craftsmanship of his private hoard。 It was a ritual he performed every evening before going to bed； almost as if he were a father looking in on his sleeping children。
Rummel's pilgrimage finally ended at the side of a large glass case that was the centerpiece of the gallery。 It held the crowning treasure of his collection。 Gleaming under halogen spotlights； the Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo lay in splendor； arms and legs outstretched； the mask sparkling with emeralds in the eye sockets。 The magnificent brilliance of the artistry never failed to move Rummel。
Knowing full well it had been stolen from the national anthropological museum in Seville； Spain； seventy…six years previously； Rummel did not hesitate to pay one million two hundred thousand dollars in cash when he was approached by a group of men who claimed to be connected to the Mafia but were in reality members of a clandestine underground syndicate that specialized in the theft of precious art objects。 Where they had e upon the golden suit； Rummel had no idea。 He could only assume they had either stolen it themselves or bought it from the collector who had dealt with the original thieves。
Having had his nightly gratification； Rummel turned off the lights； returned upstairs to the foyer； and closed the mirror。 Moving behind a wet bar designed around a two thousand…year…old Roman sarcophagus； he half…filled a small snifter from a bottle of brandy and retired to his bedroom to read before falling asleep。
In another apartment directly level and across the street from Rummel's building； United States Customs Agent David Gaskill sat and peered through a pair of high…powered binoculars mounted on a tripod as the artifacts collector prepared for bed。 Another agent might have been bored after nearly a week of stakeout； but not Gaskill。 An eighteen…year veteran of the Customs Service； Gaskill looked more like a football coach than a special government agent； a look he cultivated for his work。 His gray hair was curly and bed back。 An African American； his skin was more doeskin brown than dark coffee； and his eyes were a strange mixture of mahogany and green。 His massive bulldog head seemed to grow out of his shoulders on a stunted； tree…trunk neck。 A huge mountain of a man； he was once an all…star linebacker for the University of Southern California。 He had worked hard to lose his South Carolina drawl and spoke with practiced diction； occasionally being mistaken for a former British citizen from the Bahamas。
Gaskill had been fascinated by pre…Columbian art ever since a field trip to the Yucatan Peninsula during school。 When stationed in Washington； D。C。； he had handled dozens of investigations involving looted artifacts from the Anasazi and Hohokam cultures of the American Southwest desert。 He was working on a case involving the smuggling of carved Mayan stone panels when he received a tip that was passed along to him by Chicago police from a cleaning woman。 She had accidentally discovered photographs protruding from a drawer in Rummel's penthouse of what she believed to be a man's body covered in gold。 Thinking that someone might have been murdered； she stole a photo and turned it over to the police。 A detective who had worked on art fraud cases recognized the golden object as an antiquity and called Gaskill。
Rummel's name had always been high on the Customs Service's list of people who collected ancient art without concern about where it came from； but there was never any evidence of illegal dealings； nor did Gaskill have a clue where Rummel kept his hoard。 The special agent； who possessed the expertise of an antiquities scholar； immediately recognized the photo supplied by the cleaning lady as the long…lost Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo。
He set up an immediate round…the…clock surveillance of Rummel's penthouse and had the old man tailed from the time he left the building until he returned。 But six days of tight scrutiny had turned up no indication of where Rummel's collection was hidden。 The suspect never varied his routine。 After leaving for his office at the lower end of Michigan Avenue； where he'd spend four hours； sifting through his investments； it was lunch at a run…down cafe where he always ordered bean soup and a salad。 The rest of the afternoon was spent prowling antique stores and art galleries。 Then dinner at a quiet German restaurant； after which he would take in a movie or a play。 He usually arrived home at eleven…thirty。 The routine never varied。
〃Doesn't he ever get tired of drinking the same rotgut in bed？〃 muttered Special Agent Winfried Pottle。 〃Speaking for myself； I'd prefer the waiting arms of a beautiful woman oozing supple elegance and wearing a little something black and flimsy。〃
Gaskill pulled back from the binoculars and made a dour face at his second…in…mand of the surveillance team。 Unlike Gaskill in his Levi's and USC football jacket； Pottle was a slim； handsome man with sharp features and soft red hair； who dressed in three…piece suits plete with pocket watch and chain。 〃After seeing a few of the women you date； I'd have to say that wa