Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

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?"