inca.gold-第28节

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　　　　〃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