Inca Gold dp-12 Page 29

  Gaskill lay stretched out in bed, a cold cup of coffee and a dish with a half-eaten bologna sandwich beside him on the bed stand. The blanket warming his huge bulk was strewn with typewritten pages. He raised the cup and sipped the coffee before reading the next page of a book-length manuscript. The title was The Thief Who Was Never Caught. It was a nonfiction account of the search for the Specter, written by a retired Scotland Yard inspector by the name of Nathan Pembroke. The inspector spent nearly five decades digging through international police archives, tracking down every lead, regardless of its reliability, in his relentless hunt.

  Pembroke, hearing of Gaskill's interest in the elusive art thief from the nineteen twenties and thirties, sent him the yellowed, dog-eared pages of the manuscript he had painstakingly compiled, one that had been rejected by over thirty editors in as many years. Gaskill could not put it down. He was totally absorbed in the masterful investigative work by Pembroke, who was now in his late eighties. The Englishman had been the lead investigator on the Specter's last known heist, which took place in London in 1939. The stolen art consisted of a Joshua Reynolds, a pair of Constables, and three Turners. Like all the other brilliantly executed thefts by the Specter, the case was never solved and none of the art was recovered. Pembroke, stubbornly insisting there was no such thing as a perfect crime, became obsessed with discovering the Specter's identity.

  For half a century his obsession never dimmed, and he refused to give up the chase. Only a few months before his health failed, and he was forced to enter a nursing home, did he make a breakthrough that enabled him to write the end to his superbly narrated account.

  A great pity, Gaskill thought, that no editor thought it worth publishing. He could think of at least ten famous art thefts that might have been solved if The Thief Who Was Never Caught had been printed and distributed.

  Gaskill finished the last page an hour before dawn. He lay back on his pillow staring at the ceiling, fitting the pieces into neat little slots, until the sun's rays crept above the windowsill of his bedroom in the town of Cicero just outside Chicago. Suddenly, he felt as if a logjam had broken free and was rushing into open water.

  Gaskill smiled like a man who held a winning lottery ticket as he reached for the phone. He dialed a number from memory and fluffed the pillows so he could sit up while waiting for an answer.

  A very sleepy voice croaked, "Francis Ragsdale here."

  "Gaskill."

  "Jesus, Dave. Why so early?"

  "Who's that?" came the slurred voice of Ragsdale's wife over the receiver.

  "Dave Gaskill."

  "Doesn't he know it's Sunday?"

  "Sorry to wake you," said Gaskill, "but I have good news that couldn't wait."

  "All right," Ragsdale mumbled through a yawn. "Let's hear it."

  "I can tell you the name of the Specter."

  "Who?"

  "Our favorite art thief."

  Ragsdale came fully awake. "The Specter? You made an I.D.?"

  "Not me. A retired inspector from Scotland Yard."

  "A limey made him?"

  "He spent a lifetime writing an entire book on the Specter. Some of it's conjecture but he's compiled some pretty convincing evidence."

  "What does he have?"

  Gaskill cleared his throat for effect. "The name of the greatest art thief in history was Mansfield Zolar."

  "Say again?"

  "Mansfield Zolar. Mean anything to you?"

  "You're running me around the park."

  "Swear on my badge."

  "I'm afraid to ask--"

  "Don't bother," Gaskill interrupted. "I know what you're thinking. He was the father."

  "Good lord, Zolar International. This is like finding the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle that fell on matching carpet. The Zolars, or whatever cockamamie names they call themselves. It all begins to fit."

  "Like bread crumbs to the front door."

  "You were right during lunch the other day. The Specter did sire a dynasty of rotten apples who carried on the tradition."

  "We've had Zolar International under surveillance on at least four occasions that I can recall, but it always came up clean. I never guessed a connection to the legendary Specter."

  "Same with the bureau," said Ragsdale. "We've always suspected they were behind just about every seven figure art and artifact theft that goes down, but we've been unable to find enough evidence to indict any one of them."

  "You have my sympathy. No evidence of stolen goods, no search warrant or arrest."

  "Little short of a miracle how an underground business as vast as the Zolars' can operate on such a widespread scale and never leave a clue."

  "They don't make mistakes," said Gaskill.

  "Have you tried to get an undercover agent inside?" asked Ragsdale.

  "Twice. They were wise almost immediately. If I wasn't certain my people are solid, I'd have sworn they were tipped off."

  "We've never been able to penetrate them either. And the collectors who buy the hot art are just as tight-lipped and cautious."

  "And yet we both know the Zolars launder stolen artifacts like drug dealers launder money."

  Ragsdale was silent for a few moments. Finally he said, "I think it's about time we stop meeting for lunch to exchange notes and start working together on a full-time basis."

  "I like your style," Gaskill acknowledged. "I'll start the ball rolling on my end by submitting a proposal for a joint task force to my superior as soon as I hit the office."

  "I'll do likewise on my end."

  "Why don't we set up a combined meeting with our teams, say Thursday morning?"

  "Sounds like a winner," agreed Ragsdale.

  "That should give us time to lay the initial groundwork."

  "Speaking of the Specter, did you track down the stolen Diego Riveras? You mentioned over lunch that you might have a lead on them."

  "Still working on the case," Gaskill replied. "But it's beginning to look like the Riveras went to Japan and ended up in a private collection."

  "What do you want to bet the Zolars set up the buy?"

  "If they did, there will be no trail. They use too many front organizations and intermediaries to handle the sale. We're talking the superstars of crime. Since old Mansfield Zolar pulled off his first heist, no one in the family has ever been touched by you, by me, by any other law enforcement agency in the world. They've never seen the inside of a courtroom. They're so lily white it's disgusting."

  "We'll take them down this time," Ragsdale said encouragingly.

  "They're not the type to make mistakes we can use to our advantage," said Gaskill.

  "Maybe, maybe not. But I've always had the feeling that an outsider, someone not directly connected with you, me, or the Zolars, will come along and short-circuit their system."

  "Whoever he is, I hope he shows up quick. I'd hate to see the Zolars retire to Brazil before we can drop the axe on their necks."

  "Now that we know Papa was the founder of the operation, and how he operated, we'll have a better idea of what to look for."

  "Before we ring off," said Ragsdale, "tell me, did you ever tie an expert translator to the golden mummy suit that slipped through your hands?"

  Gaskill winced. He didn't like to be reminded. "All known experts on such glyphs have been accounted for except two. A pair of anthropologists from Harvard, Dr. Henry Moore and his wife. They've dropped from sight. None of their fellow professors or neighbors have a clue to their whereabouts."

  Ragsdale laughed. "Be nice to catch them playing cozy with one of the Zolars."

  "I'm working on it."

  "Good luck."

  "Talk to you soon," said Gaskill.

  "I'll call you later this morning."

  "Make it this afternoon. I have an interrogation beginning at nine o'clock."

  "Better yet," said Ragsdale, "you call me when you have something in the works for a joint conference."

  "I'll do that."

  Gaskill hung up smiling.
He had no intention of going into the office this morning. Getting agency sanction for a joint task force with the FBI would be more complicated on Ragsdale's end than Gaskill's. After reading all night, he was going to enjoy a nice, mind-settling sleep.

  He loved it when a case that died from lack of evidence one minute abruptly popped back to life again. He began to see things more clearly. It was a nice feeling to be in control. Motivation stimulated by incentive was a wonderful thing.

  Where had he heard that, he wondered. A Dale Carnegie class? A Customs Service policy instructor? Before it came back to him, he was sound asleep.

  Pedro Vincente set down his beautifully restored DC-3 transport onto the runway of the airport at Harlingen, Texas. He taxied the fifty-five-year-old aircraft down to the front of the U.S. Customs Service hangar and shut down the two 1200-horsepower, Pratt & Whitney engines.

  Two uniformed Customs agents were waiting when Vincente opened the passenger door and stepped to the ground. The taller of the two, with red hair mussed by a breeze and a face full of freckles, held a clipboard above his eyes to shield them from the bright Texas sun. The other was holding a beagle by a leash.

  "Mr. Vincente?" the agent asked politely. "Pedro Vincente?"

  "Yes, I'm Vincente."

  "We appreciate your alerting us of your arrival into the United States."

  "Always happy to cooperate with your government," Vincente said. He would have offered to shake hands, but he knew from previous border crossings the agents steered clear of bodily contact. He handed the redheaded agent a copy of his flight plan.

  The agent slipped the paper onto his clipboard and examined the entries while his partner lifted the beagle into the aircraft to sniff for drugs. "Your departure point was Nicoya, Costa Rica?"

  "That is correct."

  "And your destination is Wichita, Kansas?"

  "My ex-wife and my children live there."

  "And the purpose of your visit?"

  Vincente shrugged. "I fly from my home once a month to see my children. I'll be flying home the day after tomorrow."

  "Your occupation is `farmer'?"

  "Yes, I grow coffee beans."

  "I hope that's all you grow," said the agent with a tight-lipped grin.

  "Coffee is the only crop I need to make a comfortable living," said Vincente indignantly.

  "May I see your passport, please?"

  The routine never varied. Though Vincente often drew the same two agents, they always acted as if he were a tourist on his first visit to the States. The agent eyeballed the photo inside, comparing the straight, slicked back black hair, partridge brown eyes, smooth olive complexion, and sharp nose. The height and weight showed a short man on the thin side whose age was forty-four.

  Vincente was a fastidious dresser. His clothes looked as if they came right out of GQ-- designer shirt, slacks, and green alpaca sport coat with a silk bandanna tied around his neck. The Customs agent thought he looked like a fancy mambo dancer.

  Finally the agent finished his appraisal of the passport and smiled officially. "Would you mind waiting in our office, Mr. Vincente, while we search your aircraft? I believe you're familiar with the procedure."

  "Of course." He held up a pair of Spanish magazines. "I always come prepared to spend some time."

  The agent stared admiringly at the DC-3. "It's a pleasure to examine such a great old aircraft. I bet she flies as good as she looks."

  "She began life as a commercial airliner for TWA shortly before the war. I found her hauling cargo for a mining company in Guatemala. Bought her on the spot and spent a goodly sum having her restored."

  He was halfway to the office when he suddenly turned and shouted to the agent, "May I borrow your phone to call the fuel truck? I don't have enough in my tanks to make Wichita."

  "Sure, just check with the agent behind the desk."

  An hour later, Vincente was winging across Texas on his way to Wichita. Beside him in the copilot's seat were four briefcases stuffed with over six million dollars, smuggled on board just prior to takeoff by one of the two men who drove the refueling truck.

  After a thorough search of the plane, and not finding the slightest trace of drugs or other illegal contraband, the Customs agents concluded Vincente was clean. They had investigated him years before and were satisfied he was a respected Costa Rican businessman who made a vast fortune growing coffee beans. It was true that Pedro Vincente owned the second largest coffee plantation in Costa Rica. It was also true he had amassed ten times what his coffee plantation made him as he was also the genius behind a highly successful drug smuggling operation known as Julio Juan Carlos.

  Like the Zolars and their criminal empire, Vincente directed his smuggling operation from a distance. Day-to-day activities were left to his lieutenants, none of whom had a clue to his real identity.

  Vincente actually had a former wife who was living with his four children on a large farm outside of Wichita. The farm was a gift from him after she begged for a divorce. An airstrip was built on the farm so he could fly in and out from Costa Rica to visit the children while purchasing stolen art and illegal antiquities from the Zolar family. Customs and Drug Enforcement agents were more concerned about what came into the country rather than what went out.

  It was late afternoon when Vincente touched down on the narrow strip in the middle of a corn field. A golden-tan jet aircraft with a purple stripe running along its side was parked at one end. A large blue tent with an awning extending from the front had been erected beside the jet. A man in a white linen suit was seated under the awning beside a table set with a picnic lunch. Vincente waved from the cockpit, quickly ran through his postflight checklist, and exited the DC-3. He carried three of the briefcases, leaving one behind.

  The man sitting at the table rose from his chair, came forward and embraced Vincente. "Pedro, always a delight to see you."

  "Joseph, old friend, you don't know how much I look forward to our little encounters."

  "Believe me when I say I'd rather deal with an honorable man like you than all my other clients put together."

  Vincente grinned. "Fattening the lamb with flattery before the slaughter?"

  Zolar laughed easily. "No, no, not until we've had a few glasses of good champagne to make you mellow."

  Vincente followed Joseph Zolar under the awning and sat down as a young Latin American serving girl poured the champagne and offered hors d'oeuvres. "Have you brought choice merchandise for me?"

  "Here's to a mutual transaction that profits good friends," Zolar said as they clinked glasses. Then he nodded. "I have personally selected for your consideration the rarest of rare artifacts from the Incas of Peru. I've also brought extremely valuable religious objects from American Southwest Indians. I guarantee objects that have just arrived from the Andes will lift your matchless collection of pre-Columbian art above that of any museum in the world."

  "I'm anxious to see them."

  "My staff has them displayed inside the tent for your pleasure," said Zolar.

  People who begin to collect scarce and uncommon objects soon become addicts, enslaved by their need to acquire and accumulate what no one else can own. Pedro Vincente was one of the brotherhood who was driven constantly to expand his collection, one that few people knew existed. He was also one of the lucky ones who possessed secret, untaxed funds that could be laundered to satisfy his craving.

  Vincente had purchased 70 percent of his cherished collectibles from Zolar over twenty years. It did not bother him in the least that he often paid five or ten times the true value of the objects, especially since most of them were stolen goods. The relationship was advantageous to both. Vincente laundered his drug money, and Zolar used the cash to secretly purchase and expand his ever-increasing inventory of illegal art.

  "What makes the Andean artifacts so valuable?" asked Vincente, as they finished off a second glass of champagne.

  "They are Chachapoyan."

  "I've never seen Chachapoyan artwo
rk."

  "Few have," replied Zolar. "What you are about to view was recently excavated from the lost City of the Dead high in the Andes."

  "I hope you're not about to show me a few potsherds and burial urns," said Vincente, his anticipation beginning to dwindle. "No authentic Chachapoyan artifacts have ever come on the market."

  Zolar swept back the tent flap with a dramatic flourish. "Feast your eyes on the greatest collection of Chachapoyan art ever assembled."

  In his unbridled excitement, Vincente did not notice a small glass case on a stand in one corner of the tent. He walked directly to three long tables with black velvet coverings set up in the shape of a horseshoe. One side table held only textiles, the other ceramics. The center table was set up like an exhibit in a Fifth Avenue jewelry store. The extensive array of precious handcrafted splendor stunned Vincente. He had never seen so many pre-Columbian antiquities so rich in rarity and beauty displayed in one place.

  "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."