"Crystal Skull" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacGregor Rob)

Tina was mesmerized as if Andrews were a snake charmer and she the captivated cobra. She was wide-eyed, dumbfounded. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Finally, she blurted, "Thank you."
He turned to Pierce as Tina exchanged a few words with Ginger. "We've been out of touch a long time. I happened to see a list of private investigators working in South Florida and saw your name. When I verified that it was you, I couldn't resist sending you an invitation."
Unless Andrews had changed, he didn't simply invite him for the hell of it. There was a reason. "Well, I work as a P.I. only part-time right now. I own a travel agency."
"It is the child in him," Tina interjected. "I keep telling him to stay with the travel business. But his mind wanders."
Andrews nodded, laid a hand on Pierce's shoulder. "Same old Nicholas. Listen, I have to go, but I wanted to mention to you that I have a friend in the auto industry who's looking for a reliable detective to investigate insurance claims in South Florida. If you're interested, I'll recommend you."
* * * *
The bridge lowered, and traffic was moving again. In the aftermath of that conversation with his old roommate, Pierce's life had shifted from the travel industry to investigations. Within months his income had doubled, and after a year he was taking cases from several auto manufacturers. Andrews had called on occasion to ask him how it was going, and more than once Pierce had wondered if he was being primed for an assignment. But then he'd taken Gibby's case, and he hadn't heard a word from Andrews in more than a year. Not until this morning.
Pierce crossed downtown to the Rickenbacker, where he accelerated back across the bay. He quickly passed through Virginia Key and drove onto Key Biscayne, the verdant stronghold of the wealthy. In spite of the pricey real estate, almost half of the island was dedicated to parks covered with banyans, palms, and wild growths of lush vegetation. Most of the remainder was claimed by mansions and million-dollar condominiums.
He followed Crandon Boulevard, passing a golf course and a small shopping district. The road narrowed as he motored through quiet, tree-lined residential streets. Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw the gate to Cape Florida State Park and realized he'd missed the turn. He backtracked at fifteen miles an hour until he found Mimosa Lane. Andrews lived at the end of it, on the beach -- or more precisely, above the beach. He pulled up to a guard booth at the entrance to the high-rise and told its uniformed caretaker who he was visiting.
After jotting down his name and license number, the guard punched a three-digit number on his phone and spoke into it softly, announcing Pierce's arrival. A moment later, the guard told him where to park and motioned him through.
"There you go, Swedie," Pierce said to his car as he closed the door, "a parking spot with an ocean view."
Once inside the lobby, he looked around for the stairs. He walked past the elevator and took the steps two at a time. Heavy metal fire doors separated each flight. He counted eight of them by the time he reached the top floor. Whenever anyone asked him why he took the stairs, he usually said he liked the exercise or he didn't like waiting for the stupid box. The truth was that every time he stepped into an elevator -- and he hadn't done it for several years -- he experienced a cold-blooded, phobic chill, a sensation that ran up his spine and was accompanied by an irrational terror that he'd be stuck between floors. It had happened once, and he felt a certainty it would happen again.
Andrews's condominium occupied the southeast corner of the top floor. He knocked on the door, and a moment later, the same bodyguard he'd seen four years ago opened the door. His neck was the size of Pierce's thigh and met his shoulders at a forty-five degree slope. He wore a T-shirt that looked as if it would rip at the seams if he flexed his muscles.
"Morning," Pierce said brightly.
The man nodded without speaking, motioned him to enter. Pierce stepped into a spacious living room that afforded a sweeping view of the ocean. He knew that Andrews owned several other homes and that he spent about three months of the year at this residence.
The bodyguard led him through the room, past a dining room, and down a hall to Andrews's study. In the few seconds it took to walk through the apartment, he saw a man and a woman in the kitchen cooking, a maid vacuuming, and several men in suits seated around a table in a meeting room. He had also noticed something else, a blur of cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, wall clocks, and table clocks.
He glanced around the study. More clocks. On the wall behind Andrews's desk, clock hands stretched over a metallic world map. Another, the largest he'd seen, was embedded in the face of an octagonal coffee table situated in front of a black leather sofa. Yet another, this one near the door, said _Tempus Abire Tibi Est_ on its face. Pierce laughed. It was the same phrase that Andrews had handwritten on the door inside his bedroom when they roomed together. It meant: It is time for you to go away. At least his sense of humor hadn't changed.
"Lots of clocks," he said to the bodyguard, who'd followed him into the study.
The man made a guttural sound and took out a pen and pad. As he scribbled on it. Pierce discreetly studied him: He was blond, had a square jaw, and a handsome, youthful face. He was surprised the man was a mute, but imagined the handicap suited Andrews just fine, an audience who couldn't interrupt. Actually he probably considered him more a roving piece of furniture than a fellow human. But then again, he wasn't sure what Andrews thought about anything. Not anymore.
He held up the paper to Pierce. On it was written: "A hundred and sixteen clocks plus forty-two watches."
"That's a lot. What's your name?"
He didn't think the man had watched his lips, but wasn't certain. A moment later, he held up his pad and Pierce read the two-letter name.
"K.J., nice to meet you," Pierce said, speaking in a loud, clear voice and shaking the man's huge hand.
K.J. scribbled something again. "Mute, but not deaf."
Pierce grinned, embarrassed. K.J. pointed at the sofa, then backed out of the room, closing the door after him.
He sat down, but only for a moment. He saw a partially opened door behind Andrews's desk; a glow of colored neon emanated from it. He walked over and looked inside. It was a bathroom, and the glow was from the pink and blue tubes of a neon clock on the wall. He leaned over the sink toward the mirror. The swelling on his head was less noticeable, but the skin was turning an ugly purple and looked particularly bad under neon. He ran a hand through his hair, covering the bruise as best he could.
He was about to return to the study when he realized there was another door opposite the sink. It was covered with the same pink and blue geometric designs as the walls and the handle was a latch set into the door. He tugged lightly at it and the door opened. He glanced about quickly. The room was equipped with computers, fax machines, a dozen telephones, and a paper shredder. Andrews's war room, he thought, and retreated into the bathroom.
As he moved back into the study, he saw a photo on Andrews's desk and picked it up. Ginger and Ray were arm in arm on the deck of a yacht, and in the background he could read the name, _Argo-2_, no doubt a reference to Jason and the Argonauts and the search for the Golden Fleece. He focused on Ginger. Even though she was smiling, there was a distant, vacant look on her face. She'd died a year ago; a suicide, the papers said. He'd called Andrews in the aftermath to express his condolences, but had been told he was unavailable.
He put the photo back in place, wondering how long it would be kept on the desk. He didn't think Andrews was the kind to torture himself over a lost love. Pierce remembered a man who quixotically bounded from one affair to the next, never satisfied, always seeking someone new. More than one young woman had been discarded like yesterday's garbage.
He walked over to a wall and examined framed magazine covers of _Time, U.S. News and World Report_, and _Business Week_ featuring Andrews. Cover boy. Maybe living in the shadow of Ray Andrews had become too much of a burden for Ginger.
All the articles focused on Andrews's role in the new capitalism sweeping Eastern Europe. While others feared the chaos and played a wait-and-see game, Andrews had immediately begun setting up deals, acting primarily as an intermediary between the new capitalists and the old ones. He was so successful that diplomats on both sides sought him out for advice in political maneuvering. One headline was: america's emissary to eastern europe. Another read: minister of change. The third: envoy of the new enlightenment.
Pierce turned as the door opened and a middle-aged woman in a business suit entered. "Mr. Pierce, Mr. Andrews is in a meeting right now. He told me to tell you he'll be with you in a few minutes. Would you like something to drink while you wait?"
"Iced tea or a glass of water would be fine."
As the woman left, he walked over to a bookcase and examined the titles on a row at eye level. Most were tomes on philosophy, mysticism, mythology. Andrews's esoteric side, he thought. One leather-bound book stuck out a bit farther than the others. He pulled it off the shelf. The binding was well worn, and it opened to a page that was marked.
The passage was about an incomplete work by Plato called _Critias_, which abruptly ended in midsentence. It was the second of a planned three-part dialogue on Atlantis. The first was called _Timaeus_, and the third was either lost or never written. The author explained that Plato may have stopped writing the dialogues when his patron, Dionysius I, died. He also pointed out that at the time, there were few lengthy descriptions of foreign lands, so Plato might simply have tired of the task of recreating Atlantis.
Andrews had written one word in the margin: bullshit.
Pierce laughed to himself. Same old Ray, still waving his philosophic sword. He remembered how Andrews was always the center of attention at any gathering, especially when the conversation turned to mysticism, a topic in vogue at the time. One day he would attack Castaneda or the _I Ching_, and the next, he would play the opposite side with equal persuasiveness. He could sway you either way. He loved pulling the switch; he relished pulling it off.
When Andrews wasn't around, Pierce and his circle of friends would talk about him, try to figure him out. The conclusion, which conveniently fit their stoned mystical musings, was that Andrews must be the reincarnation of a medieval wizard. Yet, he'd always been more of a fortune hunter than a fortune-teller.
He replaced the book exactly as he'd found it. On the shelf above it, he read a couple of the titles: _The Secret Teachings of All Ages_, and _Occult Symbols in Art_. Both had several bookmarks protruding. He was about to take one down when he heard the door opening.
"Here is your drink, sir." He turned around to see a young woman with long, dark hair holding a silver tray with a tall glass of iced tea and a slice of lemon on the side. She wore a blue uniform and was obviously another hired hand. She set the tray down on an end table next to a couch and quickly left the room.
He'd only taken a couple of sips when the door opened again. "Nicholas, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long. I appreciate your effort to get over here so quickly."
Pierce stood and extended his hand. Even at six-one, he had to look up an inch or so to Andrews. His full head of black hair was swept back, and every strand was perfectly in place. He was wearing a white silk shirt and white pants, which accented his tan. He reminded Pierce of a polished Latin playboy without the accent.
"You look the same as ever, Ray." He knew Andrews appreciated the compliment, and the man did appear younger than his years. He hadn't started college until he was twenty-one, and was three years older than Pierce.
"You think so? I'll be forty-three in a couple of months."
"You'd never know it," Pierce said.
Andrews stared at him for a moment. His eyes were deep, dark, compelling. They begged for attention, were at once forceful and compassionate. "I see the swelling. Does it hurt?"
"Not much at all today."
"Why don't we go out on the veranda. It's much more pleasant for talking."
They walked out to an unscreened porch with several comfortable patio chairs and a table. Pierce moved over to the railing and gazed out at the horizon, where the lapis ocean met the pale blue sky. Even though he disliked what the concrete high-rise condominiums had done to the once-pristine South Florida shoreline, he had to admit that from up here the view was pleasant.
"You've had some rough breaks," Andrews said, echoing what Gibby had said to him. "I wish you had told me you were planning to take that consumer case. Christ, I would've warned you. You can't cross lines like that."