Clive Cussler - Inca Gold

Ragsdale stared back. "The Zolars aren't perfect. There has to be a flaw in their system somewhere, and I'm staking my career that it's across the street in that building."

Gaskill laughed. "I'm with you, buddy, right on down to forced early retirement."

Ragsdale held up a thumb. "Then the show goes on in eight minutes as planned."

"I don't see any reason to call a halt, do you?"

"With Zolar and two of his brothers running around Baja looking for treasure, and the rest of his family in Europe, we'll never have a better opportunity to explore the premises before their army of attorneys gets wind of the operation and swoops in to cut us off at the pass."

Two agents driving a pickup truck borrowed from the Galveston Sanitation Department pulled up at the curb opposite the gardener who was cultivating a flower bed beside the Zolar building. The man in the passenger seat rolled down the window and called out, "Excuse me."

The gardener turned and stared questioningly at the truck.

The agent made a friendly smile. "Can you tell me if your driveway gutters backed up during the last rain?"

Curious, the gardener stepped out of the flower bed and approached the truck. "I don't recall seeing any backup," he replied.

The agent held a city street map out the window. "Do you know if any of the surrounding streets had drainage problems?"

As the gardener leaned down to study the map, the agent's arm suddenly lashed out and tore the transmitter from the gardener's head and jerked the cable leading from the microphone and headphones from its socket in the battery pack. "Federal agents," snapped the agent. "Stand still and don't wink an eye."

The agent behind the wheel then spoke into a portable radio. "Go ahead, it's all clear."

The federal agents did not smash into the Zolar International building with the lightning speed of a drug bust, nor did they launch a massive assault like the disaster that occurred years before in the compound in Waco, Texas. This was no high-security, armed fortress. One team quietly surrounded the building's exits while the main group calmly entered through the main entrance.

The office help and corporate administrators showed no sign of fear or anxiety. They appeared confused and puzzled. The agents politely but firmly herded them out onto the main floor of the warehouse where they were joined by the workers in the storage and shipping section and the artisans from the artifact preservation department. Two buses were driven through the shipping doors and loaded with the Zolar International personnel, who were then taken to FBI headquarters in nearby Houston for questioning. The entire roundup operation took less than four minutes.

The paperwork team, made up mostly of FBI agents trained in accounting methods and led by Ragsdale, went to work immediately, searching through desks, examining files, and scrutinizing every recorded transaction. Gaskill, along with his Customs people and professional art experts, began cataloguing and photographing the thousands of art and antique objects stored throughout the building. The work was tedious and time-consuming and produced no concrete evidence of stolen goods.

Shortly after one o'clock in the afternoon, Gaskill and Ragsdale sat down in Joseph Zolar's luxurious office to compare notes amid incredibly costly art objects. The FBI's chief agent did not look happy.

"This is beginning to have the look of a big embarrassment followed by a storm of nasty publicity and a gigantic lawsuit," Ragsdale said dejectedly.

"No sign of criminal activity in the records?" asked Gaskill.

"Nothing that stands out. We'll need a good month for an audit to know for certain if we have a case. What did you dig up on your end?"

"So far every object we've studied checks clean. No stolen goods anywhere."

"Then we've performed another abortion."

Gaskill sighed. "I hate to say it, but it appears the Zolars are a hell of a lot smarter than the best combined investigative teams the United States government can field."

A few moments later, the two Customs agents who had worked with Gaskill on the Rummel raid in Chicago, Beverly Swain and Winfried Pottle, stepped into the office. Their manner was official and businesslike, but there was no hiding the slight upward curl of their lips. Ragsdale and Gaskill had been so absorbed in their private conversation that they hadn't noticed the two younger Customs agents had not entered through the office door, but from the adjoining, private bathroom.

"Got a minute, boss?" Beverly Swain asked Gaskill.

"What is it?"

"I think our instruments have detected some sort of shaft leading under the building," answered Winfried Pottle.

"What did you say?" Gaskill demanded quickly.

Ragsdale looked up. "Instruments?"

"The ground-penetrating sonic/radar detector we borrowed from the Colorado School of Mines," explained Pottle. "Its recording unit shows a narrow space beneath the warehouse floor leading into the earth."

A faint ray of hope suddenly passed between Ragsdale and Gaskill. They both came to their feet. "How did you know where to look?" asked Ragsdale.

Pottle and Swain could not contain their smiles of triumph. Swain nodded at Poole who answered, "We figured that any passageway leading to a secret chamber had to start or end at Zolar's private office, a connective tunnel he could enter at his convenience without being observed."

"His personal bathroom," Gaskill guessed wonderingly.

"A handy location," Swain confirmed.

Ragsdale took a deep breath. "Show us."

Pottle and Swain led them into a large bathroom with a marble floor and an antique sink, commode, and fixtures, with teak decking from an old yacht covering the walls. They motioned to a modern sunken tub with a Jacuzzi that seemed oddly out of place with the more ancient decor.

The shaft drops under the bathtub," said Swain, pointing.

Are you sure about this?" asked Ragsdale skeptically. "The shower stall strikes me as a more practical setup for an elevator."

"Our first thought too," answered Pottle, "but our instrument showed solid concrete and ground beneath the shower floor."

Pottle lifted a long tubular probe that was attached by an electrical cable to a compact computer with a paper printout. He switched on the unit and waved the end of the probe around the bottom of the tub. Lights on the computer blinked for a few seconds and then a sheet of paper rolled through a slot on the top. When the recording paper stopped flowing, Pottle tore it off and held it up for everyone to see.

In the center of an otherwise blank sheet of paper, a black column extended from end to end.

"No doubt about it," announced Pottle, "a shaft with the same dimensions as the bathtub that falls underground."

"And you're sure your electronic marvel is accurate?" said Ragsdale.

"The same type of unit found previously unknown passages and chambers in the Pyramids of Giza last year."

Gaskill said nothing as he stepped into the tub. He fiddled with the nozzle, but it simply adjusted for spray and direction. Then he sat down on a seat large enough to hold four people. He turned the gold-plated hot and cold faucets, but no water flowed through the spout.

He looked up with a big smile. "I think we're making progress."

Next he wiggled the lever that raised and lowered the plug. Nothing happened.

"Try twisting the spout," suggested Swain.

Gaskill took the gold-plated spout in one of his massive hands and gave it a slight turn. To his surprise it moved and the tub began to slowly sink beneath the bathroom floor. A reverse turn of the spout and the tub returned to its former position. He knew, he knew, this simple little water spout and this stupid bathtub were the keys that could topple the entire Zolar organization and shut them down for good. He gave a come-hither motion to the others and said gleefully, "Going down?"