Текст книги "The Storm"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 5

THE ISLAND OF MALÉ IS THE MOST POPULATED OF THE twenty-six atolls known as the Maldives. In centuries past Malé had been the king’s private island, the citizens living on the other islands spread out across two hundred miles of ocean. Now Malé was the nation’s capital. A hundred thousand people lived on it, packed into less than three square miles.

In contrast to volcanic islands like Hawaii or Tahiti, the Maldives have no peaks or rocky outcroppings. In fact, the highest natural point on Malé is only seven feet above sea level, though multistory condos and other buildings sprout in every section of ground right up to the water’s edge.

Flying there from Washington, D.C., was a daylong trip. Fourteen hours to Doha, Qatar, a three-hour layover, which seemed short by comparison, and then another five-hour flight that took great willpower even to board after so much time in the air already. Finally, after all that, travelers touched down at their destination. Sort of.

Malé itself was so small and so built up that no room for an airport remained on the circular-shaped island. To reach it meant landing on the neighboring island of Hulhulé, which was shaped something like an aircraft carrier and pretty much covered entirely by the airport’s main runway.

Aboard a four-engine A380, Kurt watched other passengers grip the armrests with white knuckles as the plane dropped closer and closer to the water. Just as it seemed like the landing gear would clip the waves, solid ground appeared and the big Airbus planted itself on the concrete runway.

“Whoa,” a voice said from beside him.

Kurt looked over. Joe Zavala had been jolted awake by the landing. His short black hair was a little disheveled and his dark brown eyes wide open as if he’d been zapped with a cattle prod. He’d been sound asleep until the wheels hit the ground.

“How about a little warning next time?”

Kurt smiled. “And ruin the surprise? A little adrenaline spike like that will get the day started right.”

Joe looked at Kurt suspiciously. “Remind me not to let you choose my ringtones or alarm. You’d probably pick an air horn or something.”

Kurt laughed. He and Joe had been through a decade of adventures together. They’d been in endless scrapes and fights and faced dozens of moments that loomed like utter disaster until somehow they’d managed to turn the tide, usually at the last second.

Kurt had risked his life many times to pull Joe out of the fire. Joe had done the same for him. Somehow, that gave them the right to needle each other mercilessly in the downtime.

“The way you snore,” Kurt said, “I don’t know if an air horn would do the trick.”

Thirty minutes later, after a quick run through baggage claim and customs, Kurt and Joe found themselves in an open boat, otherwise known as a water taxi, crossing the narrow straight between Hulhulé and Malé.

Kurt was studying the open water. Joe had his nose in a crossword puzzle he’d been working on for half the flight.

“Five-letter word for African cat?” Joe asked.

Kurt hesitated. “I wouldn’t go with tiger,” he replied.

“Really?” Joe said. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Kurt said. “How come you look so tired?”

Joe normally traveled well. In fact, Kurt often wondered if he had some secret handed down from generations of explorers in his family that allowed him to cross a dozen time zones and feel no ill effects of the journey. But right now, there were dark circles under Joe’s eyes, and despite his rangy, athletic physique, Joe looked bushed.

“You were in D.C. when the call came in,” Joe said. “Ten minutes from the airport. I was in West Virginia, with fifteen kids from the youth program. We’ve been running cross-country and doing confidence courses all weekend.”

In his spare time, Joe ran a program for inner-city kids. Kurt often helped with the outings, though he’d missed out on this one.

“Trying to keep up with the teenagers, huh?”

“It keeps me young,” Joe insisted.

Kurt nodded. The fact was they were both athletes. To withstand the rigors of NUMA’s Special Projects branch, one had to be. There was literally no telling what would come their way, only a fairly high probability that it would be strenuous, demanding, and likely to exhaust every last bit of mental and physical energy a man or woman had.

To survive such rigors, both men kept themselves in great shape. Kurt was taller and more lean and agile. He rowed the Potomac or ran nearly every single day. He lifted weights and took tai kwan do, as much for the agility, balance, and discipline as for its value in combat.

Joe was shorter, with broader shoulders and the build of a boxer. He also played soccer in an amateur league and swore he could have gone pro if he’d only been just a little faster. Right now he seemed obsessed with finishing the crossword.

Kurt grabbed the paper out of his hands and tossed it into a basket. “Rest your eyes,” he said. “You’re going to need them.”

Joe stared forlornly at the folded bit of newspaper for a second, shrugged, and then tilted his head back against the headrest. He shut his eyes and began soaking in the warm sun for the ten-minute ride across the strait.

“You come here for vacation?” the water taxi’s pilot asked, trying to make conversation.

In a white linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, Kurt looked every bit the tourist arriving at an eagerly awaited destination. The taxi driver couldn’t know any different.

“We’re here on business,” he said.

“That’s good,” the man replied. “Lots of business on Malé. What kind do you do?”

Kurt thought about that for a second. It was all but impossible to explain exactly what NUMA’s Special Projects Team did since they basically did a little bit of everything. The truth came to him, simple and quick.

“We solve problems,” he said finally.

“Then you come to the wrong place,” the driver said. “Maldives are paradise. No problems here.”

Kurt smiled. He only wished the man was right.

The transit continued, slow and easy, until the buildings of Malé began to loom in front of them. The taxi moved through the breakwater and slowed. The turquoise color gave way to clear shallow water with only the slightest hint of blue.

As the boat bumped the dock, the taxi driver cut the throttle and threw a rope to another man onshore.

Kurt stood, tipped the driver and stepped off the small boat. Ahead, on the shore, tourists strolled in the sunlight, moving in and out of the shops of the waterfront. A group of men in bright reflective vests worked on a broken section of concrete, stopping mid-project to lean on their shovels and stare at a rather attractive Polynesian woman who walked by.

Kurt really couldn’t blame them. Her lush black hair draped like ink against a sleeveless white top. Her tan face, high cheekbones and full lips glistened in the sun. And while her legs were covered by conservative gray slacks, Kurt had no doubt they were toned and tan like the rest of her.

She ducked into a jewelry store, and both Kurt and the construction workers went back to their respective tasks.

“You ready?” Kurt said.

“As I’ll ever be,” Joe replied.

Kurt pulled on his pack, and the two men hiked up the dock. Two other figures waited for them: a man of great height, nearly six foot eight, with a stern, intense look securely plastered on his face; and a woman with a kind yet mischievous look on her face, blue-green eyes and slightly curly hair the color of red wine. She stood about five foot ten, but she looked petite by the man’s side.

“Looks like the Trouts beat us here,” Kurt said, pointing them out to Joe.

Paul and Gamay Trout were two of their closest friends and invaluable members of the Special Projects team. Her irrepressible spirit and mischievous nature was the yin to his serious, sensible yang.

“Welcome to paradise,” Gamay said. Originally from Wisconsin, she still spoke with a soft midwestern accent.

“You’re the second person to call it that,” Kurt said.

“It’s in the brochure.”

Kurt hugged her and then shook Paul’s hand. Joe did the same.

“How in the world did you guys get here so fast?”

Gamay smiled. “We had a head start. We were in Thailand, sampling some of the most fantastic food I’ve ever tasted.”

“Lucky you,” Kurt said.

“Do you want to check into the hotel?” Paul asked.

Kurt shook his head. “I want to get a look at the catamaran. They bring it in yet?”

“A rescue boat from the Maldives NDF (National Defense Force) towed it in an hour ago. At our request, they’ve kept it quarantined.”

That was good news. “Then let’s go see what we can find.”

A seven-minute walk took them along the harbor to a jetty manned by a few sailors. Two fast patrol boats were moored just beyond it, while the burned-out hulk of the NUMA catamaran was tied to the dock cleats at its side.

At a small kiosk, Kurt filled out some paperwork and handed over copies of his ID and passport. As they waited for the stamp of approval, Kurt glanced around the dockside and noticed something odd. He kept it to himself for a moment, took his identification back and addressed the man in the uniform.

“Do you speak English?”

“Very much so,” the young man said proudly.

“Tell me,” Kurt continued, “without staring—is there a beautiful brunette in a white blouse watching us from the walkway?”

The guard began to move his head for a better look.

“Without staring,” Kurt reminded him.

He was more cautious this time. “Yes, she’s there. Is she a problem?”

“Not if you don’t mind being followed by beautiful women,” Kurt replied. “Keep an eye on her for us.”

The man smiled. “Gladly,” he said, then added before Kurt could, “without staring.”

“Exactly.”

Kurt left the kiosk. And then he, Joe, and the Trouts went aboard the catamaran.

“What a mess,” Gamay said, hands on her hips.

That it was. Fire had charred and blackened half the boat, melting the fiberglass near the aft, where it must have burned the hottest. Equipment and supplies were strewn everywhere.

“What are we looking for?” Paul asked.

“Anything that tells us what might have happened,” Kurt replied. “Was it an accident or foul play? Were they having continuous problems or did something suddenly go wrong?”

“I’ll find the logbook and the GPS unit,” Paul said.

“I’ll check the cabins,” Gamay said.

Joe moved to the driver’s seat. He flicked a few switches. Nothing happened. “Power’s out.”

Kurt glanced around. The catamaran had two solar panels on the roof, which seemed to be intact. In addition, a small windmill high in the mast was spinning freely. The system should have had juice even if there was no one around to use it.

“Check the cables,” he said.

Joe climbed on the cabin’s roof and found the problem. “Burned through up here,” he said. “I think I can splice it.”

As Joe went to work, Kurt began poking around near the life-raft canisters. Not only hadn’t they been deployed but the casings hadn’t even been unlatched.

“Any sign of water below?” he shouted, thinking maybe a rogue wave had hit them and taken them overboard, though that wouldn’t explain the fire.

“No,” Gamay shouted back. “Dry as dust down here.”

Kurt crouched down to examine the marks left by the fire. The residue was odd and thick, more like sludge than soot.

The boat had an auxiliary engine for use in emergencies or when there was no wind; it lay below deck near the aft. He lifted the deck cover to get a look at it.

“No sign of fire in the engine bay,” he said, holding the cowling open and glancing over the top of it.

The Polynesian brunette had moved closer to them, standing on the main walk beside a small tree near the edge of the dock. She held a phone oddly as if she was taking pictures of the catamaran with it.

Was she a reporter?

Somehow, this mess didn’t strike Kurt as newsworthy unless this woman knew something he didn’t at this point.

Gamay returned from below.

“Anything?” Kurt asked.

She held out a handful of items. “Thalia’s journal,” she said. “Some of Halverson’s notes. A laptop.”

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing major, but the table in the main cabin is broken. And there are dishes and plates smashed in there as well. But the cupboards are latched, so I’m assuming what’s broken was out and probably in use at the time. Also, the bulk food in the pantry is gone, everything except the canned goods.”

For a second Gamay’s words sparked some hope inside Kurt. If a situation had put the catamaran’s crew in survival mode, food would be a priority, but they wouldn’t have left the canned goods behind. More likely, that’s all they would have taken.

Paul made his way back from the bow. He had the GPS unit and the sampling tools. “Nothing out of the ordinary up front, except a deck hose left in the on position.”

“Maybe they used it to fight the fire,” Gamay said.

Kurt doubted that. A pair of red fire extinguishers sat untouched in their supporting clamps, one on each side of the boat. “Then why didn’t they use these?”

With no answers or even guesses, Kurt looked to Gamay. “Dirk tells me you’ve been taking classes in forensics.”

She nodded. “My time last year with Dr. Smith made me realize small things can tell us a lot. Especially when little else makes sense.”

“None of this makes any sense to me,” Kurt said. “A few containers of missing bulk goods doesn’t mean they were pirated, not when the computers and anything of real value was left behind. Broken dishes and a broken table might suggest a struggle, but it isn’t enough to make me think they went crazy and killed each other. So the only danger I see is this fire, but if they fought it with the hose, they seemed to forget they had fire extinguishers.”

“Maybe the fire disoriented them,” Paul suggested. “Maybe it happened at night? Or it released toxic fumes somehow, and they had no choice but to go overboard.”

That sounded like a possibility to Kurt. Thin but at least possible. And that might explain the strange residue. Perhaps it was an accelerant or gel of some kind. But if so, how did it get there?

“Let’s start with that,” he said. “The fire didn’t come from the engine bay, so something else had to cause it. Let’s get samples of the sludge, and anything else that seems odd.”

“I’ll do that,” Gamay said.

“And I’ll help Joe get the power back up,” Paul added.

“Good,” Kurt said smiling. “Leaves nothing for me to do except introduce myself to an attractive young woman.”

CHAPTER 6

GAMAY STARED AT HIM AS IF HE WAS JOKING. “OF COURSE you will,” she said. “You’re Kurt Austin, what else would you do?”

Despite her gibe, and suspicious glances from the others, Kurt said nothing more. He crossed the gangway onto the jetty but kept his eyes on the guard at the kiosk as if the guard was heading back inside.

At the last second he turned, locked his gaze on the woman by the tree, and began to march toward her.

He moved briskly, with long strides. She stared at him for a second and then began to back up. Kurt kept going.

The woman moved faster, backing toward the street. As she did so, a delivery van came racing down it. A partner coming to whisk her away, Kurt guessed.

But the woman stopped in her tracks, appearing confused. She stared at the approaching van and then looked at Kurt and then back at the van as it screeched to a stop several feet away.

The door flew open and two men jumped out. She tried to run, but they grabbed her.

Kurt didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he knew that wasn’t a good sign. He broke into a run, shouting at the men.

“Hey!”

The woman screamed as they dragged her backward. She struggled, but they flung her through the open door and piled in behind her. By the time Kurt reached the street, they were speeding off. The guard from the kiosk raced up behind him, blowing a whistle.

A whistle wasn’t going to cut it.

“Do you have a car?”

“Just a scooter,” the guard said, pulling out a key and pointing to a little orange Vespa.

Kurt snatched the key and ran for the scooter. It would have to do.

He threw a leg over the seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and turned it. The 50cc engine came to life with all the power of a bathroom fan.

“Who doesn’t have a car?” he shouted as he popped the kickstand, twisted the throttle.

“The whole island is only two miles across,” the guard yelled back to him. “Who needs a car?”

Kurt couldn’t argue with that logic, and even if he could have, he didn’t have time. He twisted the throttle wide open, and the Vespa accelerated, buzzing like a weed whacker, chasing after the fleeing van.

A minute ago he’d wondered if the woman was a reporter, then became suspicious that she might be something more dangerous. Now he was trying to save her from kidnappers. It was making for a very interesting morning.

The van rumbled down the street two hundred yards ahead of him. Its brake lights came on and it turned left, moving inland.

Kurt followed, nearly taking out a bicyclist and a street vendor selling fish. He swerved and went up onto the sidewalk, nearly dumping the scooter in the process. A moment later he was back on the street.

The van had widened its lead substantially, and Kurt was afraid he might not be able to catch it on his underpowered ride.

“Great,” he mumbled to himself as bugs began hitting him in the face. “All those years listening to Dirk tell stories about the Duesenbergs and Packards he borrowed, and I end up on a thirty-horsepower scooter.”

He ducked down, trying to make himself more aerodynamic, and decided to count himself lucky that the scooter didn’t have tassels on the handlebars or a basket for Toto on the front.

A group of pedestrians lay ahead, moving along the crosswalk. Kurt’s thumb found the horn.

Meep-meep.

The annoying, high-pitched buzz was just enough to part the line of people. Kurt zipped through the gap like a madman and focused in on the van.

They were racing inland now, traveling along a road with so many letters and vowels in the name Kurt didn’t bother trying to read or remember it. All that mattered was keeping the delivery van in sight.

He wasn’t sure how fast other scooters went, but this little Vespa topped out at about forty miles per hour. Just as he began thinking his task was impossible, his luck began to change for the better.

Despite the guard’s rhetorical question as to who needed a car, plenty of people seemed to have them. The narrow streets were filled with cars—not to East Coast rush-hour standards perhaps—but enough to make the road into an obstacle course.

As Kurt swerved around one sedan and then cut between two others traveling side by side, he found himself gaining on the van. He could see it up ahead, trying to bull its way through a busy intersection.

As he whizzed around another slow car, he could hear the van’s horn blowing loudly. It made it to the corner and turned right.

Kurt negotiated the turn easily, knifing between a pair of stopped cars and hoping no one decided to open a door.

They were headed west now, and Kurt was closing in on the van, suddenly thrilled with his little orange steed. He saw the water approaching. Somehow, they’d reached the other side of the island already.

The van broke out into the open, zoomed along past the containers and equipment of the commercial harbor. It skidded to a stop across from a waiting speedboat, and the door opened.

The two men who’d thrown the mystery woman inside dragged her out. The van itself raced off.

Kurt ignored it and bore down on the Polynesian woman and her captors. He sped toward them and jumped off the scooter.

Without a rider, the Vespa went down and slid across the concrete. Kurt flew through the air and tackled the two men and the woman all at once.

The four of them tumbled and rolled across the concrete. Kurt felt his knee and hip scraping on the street, the familiar pain of road rash shooting through him. But he hopped up and charged the assailants.

One of them ran for the boat. The other stood, drawing out a knife. He faced Kurt for a second, backed up a few steps and then threw the knife.

Kurt dodged it, but the effort gave the man a precious second or two. He followed his friend to the boat and jumped in. The outboard engine roared and the utility boat moved off in rapid fashion. Kurt saw no identifying numbers or marks on it.

He shook his head. The match was a draw. The thugs had been denied their captive, but they’d made a clean getaway.

He turned his attention to the woman. She was crouched on the ground, holding a bloody elbow and looking as if she were in great pain.

He walked toward her.

“You all right?” he asked gruffly.

She looked up, her face streaked with tears, her mascara running. She nodded but continued to cradle her arm. “I think my arm is broken,” she said, speaking English.

Kurt’s natural protective instincts kicked in, but he reminded himself that, moments before, this woman had been spying on him and his friends and even taking pictures of the catamaran. He figured she owed him a few answers.

“I’ll get you to a hospital,” he said, helping her up, “but first you need to tell me who you are, why you’re following me, and what you find so interesting about a derelict catamaran?”

“You’re Kurt Austin,” she said in a tone of determined certainty. “You work for NUMA.”

“That’s right,” he said. “And just how do you know that?”

“I’m Leilani Tanner,” she said.

The name rang a bell. She explained before he could place it.

“Kimo A’kona was my brother. My half brother. He was on that boat.”