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  Pottle had to reach up to pound Gaskill on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Dave. Nothing left now but to obtain a search warrant and conduct a raid on Rummel's penthouse."

  Gaskill shook his head. "A warrant, yes. A raid by an army of agents, no. Rummel has powerful friends in Chicago. We can't afford a big commotion that could result in a media barrage of criticism or a nasty lawsuit. Particularly if I've made a bad call. A quiet little search by you and me and Bev Swain will accomplish whatever it takes to ferret out Rummel's artifact collection."

  Pottle slipped on a trench coat, a never-ending source of friendly ridicule by fellow agents, and headed for the door. "Judge Aldrich is a light sleeper. I'll roust him out of bed and be back with the paperwork before the sun comes up."

  "Make it sooner." Gaskill smiled wryly. "I'm itching with anticipation."

  After Pottle left, Gaskill called up Swain. "Give me a status report on the movers."

  In the lobby of Rummel's apartment building, Bev Swain sat behind the security desk and stared up at an array of four monitors. She watched as the furniture haulers moved out of camera range. Pressing the buttons on a remote switch, she went from camera to camera, mounted at strategic areas inside the building. She found the movers coming out of the freight elevator on the nineteenth floor.

  "So far they've brought up a couch, two upholstered chairs with end tables, and what looks like boxed crates of household goods, dishes, kitchen and bathroom accessories, clothing. You know, stuff like that."

  "Do they return anything to the truck?"

  "Only empty boxes."

  "We think we've figured where Rummel stashes his artifacts. Pottle's gone for a warrant. We'll go in as soon as he returns."

  "That's good news," Swain said with a sigh. "I've almost forgotten what the world looks like outside this damn lobby."

  Gaskill laughed. "It hasn't improved. Sit tight on your trim little bottom for a few more hours."

  "I may take that statement as sexual harassment," said Swain primly.

  "Merely words of praise, Agent Swain," Gaskill said wearily, "words of praise."

  A beautiful day dawned, crisp and cool, with only a whisper of breeze coming off Lake Michigan. The Farmers' Almanac had predicted an Indian summer for the Great Lakes region. Gaskill hoped so. A warmer than normal fall meant a few extra days of fishing on the Wisconsin lake beside his getaway cabin. He led a lonely private life since his wife of twenty years died from a heart attack brought on by an iron overload disease known as hemochromatosis. His work had become his love, and he used his leisure time comfortably settled in a Boston Whaler outboard boat, planning his investigations and analyzing data as he cast for pike and bass.

  As he stood next to Pottle and Swain in the elevator rising to Rummel's penthouse, Gaskill skimmed the wording of the warrant for the third time. The judge had allowed a search of Rummel's penthouse, but not Kammer's apartment on the floor below, because he failed to see just cause. A minor inconvenience. Instead of going directly into what Gaskill was certain were the rooms that held the artifacts, they would have to find a hidden access and come down from the top.

  Suddenly he was thinking a strange thought, what if the collector had been sold fakes and forged artworks? Rummel would not be the first greedy collector who had been sold a bill of goods in his unbridled lust to acquire art from any source, legal or not. He swept away the pessimistic thought and basked in a glow of fulfillment. The culmination of long hours of unflagging effort was only minutes away.

  Swain had punched in the security code that allowed the elevator to rise beyond the residents' apartments and open directly into Rummel's penthouse. The doors parted and they stepped onto the marble floor of the foyer, unannounced. Out of habit, Gaskill lightly fingered his shoulder-holstered nine-millimeter automatic. Pottle found the button to a speaker box on a credenza and pressed it. A loud buzzer was heard throughout the penthouse.

  After a short pause, a voice fogged with sleep answered. "Who's there?"

  "Mr. Rummel," said Pottle into the speaker. "Will you please come to the elevator?"

  "You'd better leave. I'm calling security."

  "Don't bother. We're federal agents. Please comply and we'll explain our presence."

  Swain watched the floor lights over the elevator flicker as it automatically descended. "That's why I'd never lease a penthouse," she said in mock seriousness. "Intruders can rig your private elevator easier than stealing a Mercedes-Benz."

  Rummel appeared in pajamas, slippers, and an old-fashioned chenille robe. The material of the robe reminded Gaskill of a bedspread he'd slept on as a young boy in his grandmother's house. "My name is David Gaskill. I'm a special agent with the United States Customs Service. I have an authorized federal court warrant to search the premises."

  Rummel indifferently slipped on a pair of rimless glasses and began reading the warrant as if it were the morning newspaper. Up close, he looked a good ten years younger than seventy-six. And although he had just come out of bed, he appeared alert and quite meticulous.

  Impatient, Gaskill moved around him. "Pardon me."

  Rummel peered up. "Look through my rooms all you want. I have nothing to hide."

  The wealthy scrap dealer appeared anything but rude and irritable. He seemed to take the intrusion in good grace with a show of cooperation.

  Gaskill knew it was nothing but an act. "We're only interested in your foyer."

  He had briefed Swain and Pottle on what to search for and they immediately set to work. Every crack and seam was closely examined. But it was the mirror that intrigued Swain. As a woman she was instinctively drawn to it. Gazing into the reflective backing, she found it free of even the tiniest imperfection. The glass was beveled around the edges with etchings of flowers in the corners. Her best guess was that it was eighteenth century. She could not help but wonder about all the other people who had stood in front of it over the past three hundred years and stared at their reflections. Their images were still there. She could sense them.

  Next she studied the intricately sculptured frame, crowded with cherubs overlaid in gold. Keenly observant, she noticed the tiny seam on the neck of one cherub. The gilt around the edges looked worn from friction. Swain gently grasped the head and tried to turn it clockwise. It remained stationary. She tried the opposite direction, and the head rotated until it was facing backward. There was a noticeable click, and one side of the mirror came ajar and stopped a few centimeters from the wall.

  She peered through the crack down the hidden stairwell and said, "Good call, boss."

  Rummel paled as Gaskill silently swung the mirror wide open. He smiled broadly as he was swept by a wave of satisfaction. This was what Gaskill liked best about his job, the game of wits culminating in ultimate triumph over his antagonist.

  "Will you please lead the way, Mr. Rummel?"

  "The apartment below belongs to my attorney, Sidney Kammer," said Rummel, a shrewd gleam forming in his eyes. "Your warrant only authorizes you to search my penthouse."

  Gaskill groped about in his coat pocket for a moment before extracting a small box containing a bass plug, a fishing lure he had purchased the day before. He extended his hand and dropped the box down the stairs. "Forgive my clumsiness. I hope Mr. Kammer doesn't mind if I retrieve my property."

  "That's trespassing!" Rummel blurted.

  There was no reply. Followed by Pottle, the burly Customs agent was already descending the stairway, pausing only to retrieve his bass plug box. What he saw upon reaching the floor below took his breath away.

  Magnificent pre-Columbian artworks filled room after room of the apartment. Glass-enclosed Incan textiles hung from the ceilings. One entire room was devoted solely to ceremonial masks. Another held religious altars and burial urns. Others were filled with ornate headdresses, elaborately painted ceramics, and exotic sculptures. All doors in the apartment had been removed for easier access, the kitchen and bathrooms stripped of their sinks, cupboards and accessories to provide mor
e space for the immense collection. Gaskill and Pottle stood overwhelmed by the spectacular array of antiquities. The quantity went far beyond what they expected.

  After the initial amazement faded, Gaskill rushed from room to room, searching for the piece de resistance of the collection. What he found was a shattered, empty glass case in the center of a room. Disillusionment flooded over him.

  "Mr. Rummel!" he shouted. "Come here!"

  Escorted by Swain, a thoroughly defeated and distraught Rummel shuffled slowly into the exhibition room. He froze in sudden horror as though one of the Inca battle lances on the wall had pierced his stomach. "It's gone!" he gasped. "The Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo is gone."

  Gaskill's face went tight and cold. The floor around the empty display case was flanked by a pile of furniture consisting of a couch, end tables, and two chairs. He looked from Pottle to Swain. "The movers," he rasped in a tone barely audible. "They've stolen the suit from right under our noses."

  "They left the building over an hour ago," said Swain tonelessly.

  Pottle looked dazed. "Too late to mount a search. They've already stashed the suit by now." Then he added, "If it isn't on an airplane flying out of the country."

  Gaskill sank into one of the chairs. "To have come so close," he murmured vacantly. "God forbid the suit won't be lost for another seventy-six years."

  IN SEARCH OF THE CONCEPCION

  October 15, 1998

  Callao, Peru

  Peru's principal seaport, Callao, was founded by Francisco Pizarro in 1537 and quickly became the main shipping port for the gold and silver plundered from the Inca empire. Appropriately, the port itself was plundered by Francis Drake forty-one years later. Spain's conquest of Peru ended almost at the spot where it had begun. The last of the Spanish forces surrendered to Simon Bolivar at Callao in 1825, and Peru became a sovereign nation for the first time since the fall of the Incas. Now joined with Lima as one sprawling metropolitan area, the combined cities host a population of nearly 6.5 million.

  Situated on the west bank of the Andes along the lowlands, Callao and Lima have an annual rainfall of only 41 millimeters (1.5 inches), making the surrounding land area one of the earth's chilliest and driest deserts in the lower latitudes. Winter fog supports thin ground cover and mesquite and little else. The only water, besides excessive humidity, flows down several streams and the Rimac River from the Andes.

  After rounding the northern tip of San Lorenzo, the large offshore island that protects Callao's natural maritime shelter, Captain Stewart ordered slow speed as a launch came alongside the Deep Fathom and the harbor pilot jumped onto a boarding ladder and climbed on board. Once the pilot steered the ship safely inside the main channel, Captain Stewart took command of the bridge again and adroitly eased the big research ship to a stop beside the dock of the main passenger terminal. Under his watchful eye the mooring lines were slipped over big, rusty bollards. Then he shut down his automatic control system, rang his chief engineer, and told him that he was through with the engines.

  Everyone lining the ship's rail was surprised to see over a thousand people jamming the dock. Along with an armed military security force and a large contingent of police, TV news cameras and press photographers quickly began jockeying for position as the gangway was lowered. Beyond the news media stood a group of smiling government officials, and behind them the happily waving parents of the archaeology students.

  "Still no Dixieland band playing `Waiting for the Robert E. Lee,' " Pitt said, feigning a disappointed tone.

  "Nothing like a cheering populace to snap one out of depression," said Giordino, gazing at the unexpected reception.

  "I never expected so grand a turnout," murmured Shannon in awe. "I can't believe word spread so fast."

  Miles Rodgers lifted one of three cameras hung around his neck and began shooting. "Looks to me like half the Peruvian government turned out."

  The dock was filled with an air of excitement. Small children were waving Peruvian and American flags. A roar came from the crowd as the archaeology students climbed out on the bridge wing and began waving and shouting as they recognized their parents. Only Stewart looked uneasy.

  "My God, I hope they all don't expect to storm aboard my ship."

  "Too many boarders to repel." Giordino shrugged. "Better to haul down your flag and plead for mercy."

  "I told you my students came from influential families," said Shannon happily.

  Unnoticed by the crowd, a small man wearing glasses and carrying a briefcase expertly squeezed through the milling throng and slipped around the cordon of security guards. He bounded up the still-lowering gangway before anyone could stop him and leaped onto the deck with the elated expression of a running back who has just crossed a goal line. He approached Pitt and Giordino and grinned.

  "Why is it prudence and discretion are beyond your talents?"

  "We try not to fly in the face of public opinion," Pitt said before smiling broadly and embracing the little man. "Good to see you, Rudi."

  "Seems we can't get away from you," said Giordino warmly.

  Rudi Gunn, the deputy director of NUMA, shook Stewart's hand and was introduced to Shannon and Rodgers. "Will you excuse me if I borrow these two rogues before the welcoming ceremonies?" he asked graciously.

  Without waiting for an answer, he stepped through a hatch and walked down an alleyway with ease. Gunn had helped design the Deep Fathom and was very familiar with the ship's deck layout. He stopped before the doorway to the conference room, opened it and entered. He went directly to the head of a long table and fished through his briefcase for a yellow legal pad filled with notations as Pitt and Giordino settled into a pair of leather chairs.

  Though Giordino and Gunn were both short, they were as unalike as a gibbon and a bulldog. While Gunn was as slight as a girl, Giordino was a huge walking muscle. They also differed in brain power. Giordino was shrewd and street smart. Gunn was sheer genius. Number one in his class at the Naval Academy, and a former navy commander who could easily have ascended to a top staff job in the Navy Department, he preferred the underwater science of NUMA to the science of warfare. Extremely nearsighted, he peered through heavy hornrimmed glasses, but never missed the slightest movement within two hundred yards.

  Pitt was the first to speak. "Why the frenzy to send Al and me back to that rotten sinkhole to retrieve a body?"

  "The request came from U.S. Customs. They made an urgent appeal to Admiral Sandecker to borrow his best men."

  "And that includes you."

  "I could have begged off, claiming my present projects would grind to a stop without my presence. The admiral would not have hesitated to send someone else. But a canary let slip your little unauthorized mission to find a lost galleon in the wilds of Ecuador."

  "Hiram Yaeger," Pitt supplied. "I should have remembered you two are as close as Frank and Jesse James."

  "I couldn't resist dumping the routine of Washington to mix a little business with adventure, so I volunteered for the dirty job of briefing and joining you on the Customs project."

  `You mean you sold Sandecker a bill of goods and skipped town?" said Pitt.

  "Mercifully for everyone involved, he doesn't know about the hunt for the galleon. At least not yet."

  "He's not an easy man to fool," said Giordino seriously.

  Not for very long," added Pitt. "He's probably already on to you."

  Gunn waved a hand indifferently. "You two are on safe ground. Better me than some poor fool unfamiliar with your escapades. Anyone else in the NUMA bureaucracy might overestimate your abilities."

  Giordino made a surly face. "And we call him a friend?"

  "What can NUMA do for Customs that's so special?" asked Pitt.

  Gunn spread a sheaf of papers on the table. "The issue is complex but involves the plunder of ancient art."

  "Isn't that a little out of our line? Our business is underwater exploration and research."

  "Destruction for the purpose of looting und
erwater archaeological sites is our business," Gunn stated earnestly.

  "Where does recovering Dr. Miller's body enter the picture?"

  "Only the first step of our cooperation with Customs. The murder of a world-renowned anthropologist is the bedrock of their case. They suspect the killer is a highlevel member of an international looting syndicate, and they need proof for an indictment. They also hope to use the killer as a key to unlock the door leading to the masterminds of the entire theft and smuggling operation. As for the sacred well, Customs and Peruvian authorities believe a vast cache of artifacts was raised from the bottom and has already been shipped to black-market receiving stations around the world. Miller discovered the theft and was terminated to shut him up. They want us, you and Al in particular, to search the floor of the well for evidence."

  "And our plan to explore for the lost galleon?"

  "Complete the job on the well, and I'll authorize a small budget out of NUMA to fund your search. That's all I can promise."

  "And if the admiral shoots you down?" asked Giordino.

  Gunn shrugged. "He's my boss as well as yours. I'm an old navy man. I follow orders."

  "I'm old air force," Pitt replied. "I question them."

  "Worry about it when the time comes," said Giordino. "Let's get the sinkhole probe out of the way."

  Pitt took a deep breath and relaxed in his chair. "Might as well do something useful while Yaeger and Perlmutter conduct their research. They should have some solid leads by the time we stumble out of the jungle."

  "There is one more request from the Customs agents," said Gunn.