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
