Текст книги "The Storm"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 14

IN THE COURTYARD OF A MOROCCAN-STYLE HOUSE, A STONE’S throw from the Gulf of Aden, the man known as Sabah enjoyed the evening. As dusk draped a cloak over the world, he savored a dinner of lamb with fresh-made flatbread and sliced tomatoes. Around him gauzy drapes wafted in the soft breeze while the sound of waves crashing against the nearby cliffs played its soothing, repetitive song.

A servant arrived and whispered in his ear.

Sabah listened and nodded. A slight wrinkle of aggravation crossed his forehead at the news.

The servant took his plate, and Sabah reclined with a glass of black tea. The sound of approaching footsteps halted beneath the archway.

“I request an audience with you,” a figure in the shadows reported.

“I would say you already have one,” Sabah replied, “since you are in my presence, invited or otherwise.”

“I do not mean to disturb you,” the man said. “I waited while you dined.”

Sabah motioned to a seat. “Come sit with me, Mustafa. We are old friends, ever since the first war with Israel. The weapons you provided did not help us to win, but they allowed me to bolster al-Khalif and his family. My good fortune has followed.”

Mustafa walked over and sat down across from Sabah, who noticed a sense of trepidation in his steps. As Mustafa was normally the boldest of men, arrogant, feisty, Sabah wondered what could be shaking him.

“Good fortune is what I’ve come to discuss,” Mustafa said, “both yours and mine. And that of others who take the lion’s share for themselves.”

Sabah took another sip of the tea and then set the glass down. On a small plate beside it were freshly cut leaves of qat, or khat, a plant with stimulant-like properties. It was similar to a mild amphetamine. Sabah took one of the leaves, folded it and placed it in his mouth. He began chewing slowly, sucking on the juices of the leaf.

“Lions take the largest share because they are lions,” Sabah explained. “No one can challenge them.”

“But what if the lion is weak and arrogant?” Mustafa asked. “Or if it is blind to the needs of the pride? Then another will rise up and take its place.”

“Come now,” Sabah said, “there’s no need to speak in metaphors. You’re talking of Jinn and the project. You believe he’s failing us somehow.”

Mustafa hesitated, wringing his hands as if in great turmoil.

Sabah slid the plate of leaves toward him. “Take one. It will free your tongue.”

Mustafa plucked one of the leaves and folded it between his fingers, much as Sabah had. He placed it in his mouth.

“What actions of Jinn seem wrong in your eyes?” Sabah asked.

“Three years of promises,” Mustafa said, “not one new drop of rain.”

“The changes take time. You were warned of this.”

“We’re running out of time,” Mustafa said, “as are you. Yemen is dying. People are being forced from the cities at gunpoint because there is not enough water for all of them.”

Sabah spat green saliva and the remnants of the qat leaf into a small bowl. He took a sip of tea to refresh his palate. Mustafa was correct. It was strongly believed the nation’s capital would run so low on water in the next year that no amount of rationing would save it. Forced migration was the only option, forcing people to other regions, but the rest of the country was in little better shape.

“It’s rained here three times in the last week,” Sabah said, “rains we normally don’t see. Even now, clouds linger over the mountains to the north. The change is coming. Jinn’s promises will be kept.”

“Perhaps,” Mustafa said, “but what prevents him from reversing those promises?”

From the gleam in Mustafa’s eyes Sabah sensed he was coming to the point.

“Honor,” Sabah said.

“Jinn has no honor,” Mustafa said. “For proof, I point to you yourself. It’s well known that you, Sabah, are the reason for Jinn’s success. His wealth and power have been built on your wisdom. His family fortune has been made from your efforts, your labor, your loyalty. Many millions Jinn has: companies, palaces, wives. And what has he given you?” Mustafa looked around. “You have a nice home, a few servants. Fine foods to dine on. Is that all you get for a lifetime of dedication? No, it’s a trifle, and surely you deserve more. You should be a prince in your own right.”

“I am a loyal servant,” Sabah replied.

“Even servants share in the master’s rewards,” Mustafa said. “In the courts of old, even a slave could become a trusted adviser.”

Sabah had heard enough. “Perhaps your tongue has been loosened too much, Mustafa.”

“No,” his guest replied excitedly, “just enough. I know the truth. Jinn uses you just as he uses us. He takes much and gives only what he has to. We are at his beck and call. If he stops the project, we shall perish. If he asks for more, we have no choice but to give it.”

“So it’s the money that disturbs you.”

“No,” Mustafa said, “it’s the power. Jinn will soon pass beyond our ability to control or even bargain with him. He’s created magic like the genies of ancient times. But if he alone wields it, the rest of us are no longer necessary. There’s good reason why the Jinns of old were cursed. They were magicians who could not be trusted. If not held down, they make themselves into gods. This is Jinn’s goal.”

Sabah took the measure of his old friend, trying to sense how far he would go. So far, Mustafa had stopped short of advocating betrayal, but that was clearly his purpose. If Sabah was right, he’d been put up to it.

“So a council has been taken among the investors,” he guessed. “Tell me who had the will to call it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mustafa said.

“It matters to me.”

“What should matter is your position,” Mustafa insisted. “I ask you to consider why are you here in Aden instead of with Jinn at his genie’s cave in the desert?”

“Because he doesn’t need me at this time.”

“More and more, that seems to happen,” Mustafa suggested. “And what will you—the loyal servant—do when Jinn doesn’t need you at all?”

Sabah was taken aback, but the words struck him as honest and not merely posturing.

Mustafa continued, pressing, “When he was young, you controlled him with strength. As he aged, you controlled him with wisdom. What do you have left? You’ve given him everything, Sabah. Now is the time to take. To take what you have earned.”

“A palace coup of some type, is that it? Is that what you seek?”

“You built this empire,” Mustafa whispered, “you more than him. You should possess its keys, not stand outside the walls like the second-class member of the clan you’ve always been.”

Mustafa’s words hit the one emotional trigger Sabah had buried the deepest. He wasn’t part of the Khalif clan. No matter how loyal or hardworking or ruthless, he would never be anything more than a trusted hand.

Indeed, as Jinn’s sons and daughters grew, what had become a partnership would fade. The clan and the family bonds would become dominant. Sabah would be pushed to the side, his own offspring unable to reap what he had sown.

In a sense, it had already begun. In the past year or two, Jinn had spent less and less time in Sabah’s presence. His habits had changed. He seemed tired of listening to Sabah’s advice where he used to savor it.

But that alone was not reason for betrayal. Sabah reached for the qat, folded another leaf between his fingers and stuck it in his mouth. There was much to consider before making such a decision.

As he chewed, the stimulants released by the plant sent a surge of energy through his body.

He knew Mustafa would not change his mind, not after he’d voiced his plan. If Sabah did not agree in principle, there would be trouble right here and now. Perhaps Mustafa had men waiting nearby. Perhaps he believed he could kill Sabah on his own.

Sabah would not give him that chance. “You have a strategy?”

Mustafa nodded. “We must see the horde in action even if it’s on a small scale.”

“By ‘we,’ you mean the others as well?”

“I will be the witness, along with Alhrama from Saudi Arabia. Jinn trusts us the most. We will report to the others.”

“I see. And how should I arrange this?”

“Jinn must grant us an inspection of the control room and the production facilities. He must give us access to the programming and the codes.”

Sabah pondered what they were asking for. He stroked his beard. “And when you have seen this?”

“Then I will signal you,” Mustafa said. “And you will kill Jinn and take over the operation as a full partner in the endeavor and the head of the Oasis consortium.”

CHAPTER 15

KURT AUSTIN WAS HEADED FOR MARCHETTI’S HIGH-TECH office atop one of Aqua-Terra’s two completed buildings. In the twenty-four hours since he and Joe had caught the seaplane, preventing Matson and Otero from escaping, much had occurred.

Back in Washington, Dirk Pitt and the NUMA brass had gone into high gear, gathering intelligence on Jinn al-Khalif.

Nigel, the pilot, had finished putting the helicopter back together and, at Marchetti’s invitation, had picked up Paul and Gamay Trout.

Marchetti himself had spent fifteen hours debugging the computer code, trying to be sure Otero had left no additional traps for them. He found none, but there were hundreds of programs running on his automated island. He insisted he couldn’t be sure that all of them were unaffected. At Kurt’s urging he’d concentrated on the more critical ones and completely deactivated the construction robots, just in case.

With a report due in from NUMA HQ, everyone was gathering in Marchetti’s office to await the transmission and discuss their next move.

Kurt opened the door and stepped inside. Joe and the Trouts were already there. Marchetti sat across from them. Leilani sat next to him.

“That’s a mighty fine brig you have down there,” Kurt said to Marchetti. “I’ve stayed in worse five-star hotels.”

Marchetti beamed. “When Aqua-Terra is ready, we expect to have millionaires and billionaires on board. If I have to put some of them in jail, I don’t want to ruin the Aqua-Terra experience for them.”

Kurt chuckled.

“Any luck getting them to talk?” Leilani asked.

“No, they’ve clammed up tight,” Kurt said, glancing at Joe and then turning back to Marchetti. “Don’t suppose you have a hungry python around here anywhere?”

Marchetti looked shocked by the request. “Um … no. Why?”

“Never mind.”

Kurt sat down just as the satellite feed locked in. A moment later Dirk Pitt’s rugged face appeared on the screen.

After a quick round of introductions, Pitt spoke.

“We’ve developed some information for you on this Jinn character. The bulk of the data will be sent to you in an encrypted file, but here’s the gist of what we know.

“Thirty years ago Jinn al-Khalif was a nineteen-year-old Bedouin camel herder; twenty years ago he entered the arms trade for a brief, profitable spurt, and shortly thereafter he used those funds to get a toehold in several legitimate businesses. Shipping and construction, infrastructure work. Nothing huge, but he did okay.

“Five years ago he forms a company called Oasis. It’s an oddly designed international consortium, heavy into technology and funded from murky sources. Interpol has been watching it from the get-go. Their big concern was the vast amount of money and technology flowing into Yemen without any type of control.”

“Can’t imagine Yemen is a magnet for attracting foreign capital,” Kurt said.

“Not in the least,” Pitt replied. “Because of that, Interpol thought Oasis might be a terrorist front or a money-laundering operation, but Jinn has not been political, not even within his own struggling country. And they’ve seen no transactions that would suggest laundering. It seems the technology transfers and the high-tech investments were legitimate.”

Pitt tapped something on the keyboard in front of him. A satellite photo came up, showing the stark beauty of Yemen’s northern desert region. The display sharpened and zoomed in as if they were dropping in from space. When the resolution locked, it was focused on a rocky outcropping that jutted above the sand and cast a long shadow. It reminded Kurt of Shiprock, New Mexico.

Leading up to the outcropping, and stretching out behind it, were vehicle tracks and swaths of discolored sand.

“What are we looking at?” Kurt asked.

“Our intelligence agencies have tracked some of Jinn’s activities to this area of the desert.”

“It doesn’t look like much,” Paul noted.

“It’s not supposed to,” Dirk replied. “See all that darker sand and soil? It’s spread out over a hundred acres.”

“It looks like it’s been washed down from somewhere,” Gamay said. “Erosion or flash flooding.”

“Except it’s in the driest part of the desert,” Dirk said, “and the grade runs off kilter to the pattern we see.”

“So it’s camouflage,” Kurt said. “What are they hiding?”

“Our experts think they’ve moved a lot of earth,” Pitt said, “suggesting an underground compound of massive proportions. Infrared scans have detected an inordinate amount of heat coming from vents in the sand. All of which suggests manufacturing, though until now no one could guess what they were up to.”

“Stealing my design,” Marchetti said, “and going into production.”

Pitt nodded. “So it would seem. The question is, why?”

Marchetti considered this for a second. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I intended them to eat garbage, but from what we saw the design has been modified. Obviously that would imply a different purpose. At this point all we know for sure is that they attacked your catamaran, but unless I’ve missed something no other vessels have been attacked or gone missing. That would suggest it’s not their main purpose.”

“Then why use them for it?” Kurt asked.

Marchetti glanced at Leilani for a second and then spoke. “Under normal circumstances the boat would have been picked clean. Not a speck of organic matter would have remained. And the bots would have disappeared back into the sea.”

Kurt understood. “No evidence. No witnesses. The boat would have been found in perfect working order like the Mary Celeste. Only they didn’t count on the crew setting a fire to fight them off.”

“Exactly,” Marchetti said. “Without the residue you found, there would have been nothing to tell us what had happened. Even if another vessel had been watching from a distance, they would have seen nothing.”

Pitt returned the conversation to the original track. “So they can be a danger to shipping,” he noted, “but if that’s not their main function, what is? Could they be causing the temperature anomalies our team discovered?”

“Possibly,” Marchetti said. “I’m not sure how, but to some extent what they’re capable of depends on how many of them are out there.”

“Can you explain that?” Pitt asked.

“Think of them as insects. One isn’t a big problem—one wasp, one ant, one termite—not much of a threat. But if you get enough of them in the same place, they can cause all kinds of trouble. My design was capable of reproducing autonomously and spreading ad infinitum. That was the only way to make them effective. No reason to think these aren’t doing the same thing. Millions of them can cause problems for a small vessel, billions could pose a threat to a large vessel or oil platform or even something the size of Aqua-Terra, but trillions of them—or trillions of trillions—that could threaten the entire sea.”

“The entire sea?” Joe asked.

Marchetti nodded. “In a way, the microbots are a pollutant in their own right. Almost like a toxin. But because they’re active in feeding, reproducing and protecting themselves, it’s better to think of them as a nonnative species invading a new habitat. They all tend to follow the same trajectory. Without natural enemies, they start off as a curiosity, quickly become a nuisance and shortly thereafter become an ecosystem-threatening epidemic. Unchecked, the microbots could do the same thing.”

“I remember when the gypsy moths came to New England,” Paul said. “Nonnative. Arrived from China with no natural enemies. One year there were a few furry caterpillars. The next year they were abundant, and by the third year they were absolutely everywhere, by the billions, covering every tree, stripping every leaf and practically decimating the forests. Is that the kind of effect you’re talking about?”

Marchetti nodded glumly.

Quiet followed as the group pondered what Marchetti had said. Kurt imagined the microbots spreading through the Indian Ocean and around the world. He wondered if the thought was rational or paranoid and why someone would want that to occur or how they could profit from it.

“Whatever they’re doing, I think we can assume it’s not a good thing,” Pitt said. “Therefore we need to find out what it is and get on top of it. Any suggestions how we can do that?”

All eyes focused on Marchetti again.

“Two ways,” he said. “Either catch the microbots in the act, for which I offer my services and the island, or go to the source and see what their orders are.”

“Go to Yemen,” Pitt clarified.

Marchetti nodded. “I hate to say it, and I certainly wouldn’t want to ride along, but if these things are being manufactured in this underground compound in Yemen, your best chance of discovering what they’re being created for is to go to the factory and check out the specs.”

Pitt nodded thoughtfully but said nothing for the moment. He looked over the assembled team one by one.

“All right,” he said finally. “Our original goal was to find out what happened to the crew, but I think we can all agree that we’ve discovered a greater threat here. One they were probably killed for. We need to follow this up from both angles. Paul and Gamay will take advantage of Mr. Marchetti’s hospitality and head up the waterborne search, using Aqua-Terra as home base. Kurt, you and Joe get ready. Unless you have any objections, I’m going find a way to sneak you into Yemen.”

Kurt looked at Joe, who nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

Pitt signed off. The meeting adjourned, and everyone began to file out.

Leilani came up to Kurt. “I want to go with you,” she said.

Kurt continued gathering up his things. “Not a chance.”

“Why?” she asked. “If this Jinn is the guy that caused all this, I want to be there when you get him.”

Kurt cut his eyes at her. “You jeopardized us once, I’m not going to let you do that again. Nor am I going to take you into danger. Nor are we going to getthis guy. Unlike you, we’re not some kind of hit squad. We want to find out what he’s up to and why, that’s it. The best thing you could do is go home to Hawaii.”

“I don’t have anyone to go home to,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt said, “but that isn’t going to work on me this time.”

Gamay came over to intercede. “We could use a marine biologist if we’re going to analyze what’s going on with the food chain. Why don’t you stay here with us?”

Leilani didn’t seem to like that idea, but it was clear she had no other option. Finally she nodded.

Kurt stepped out through the door without another word. He felt badly for her, but he had a job to do.

CHAPTER 16

GULF OF ADEN, OFF THE COAST OF YEMEN

THIRTY-SEVEN HOURS AFTER THE MEETING IN MARCHETTI’S conference room, Kurt and Joe found themselves sitting in a wooden fishing boat in the dark of night a mile or so off the coast of Aden.

Clad in black wet suits, with fins, and small oxygen tanks on their backs, they waited patiently for a signal.

Kurt rubbed a light coat of baby shampoo on the inside glass of his mask before rinsing it to keep it from fogging up. Joe checked his air one last time and secured a diving knife in a sheath on his leg.

“You ready?” Kurt asked.

“As ready as I’m going to be,” Joe said. “You see anything?”

“Not yet.”

“What if this guy got held up?”

“He’ll make it,” Kurt said. “Dirk swears this guy has helped him out a few times before.”

“Did he give you a name?”

Kurt shook his head and smiled. “He said we wouldn’t need it.”

Joe chuckled. “Dirk has his secrets, that’s for sure.”

It was a moonless night with a light wind from the northwest. Kurt could smell the desert on that breeze, but he could see nothing. They were anchored off a desolate stretch of the coast, bobbing up and down on the swells and waiting to hit the water. But they couldn’t go until they were sure someone had arrived to pick them up.

Finally a pair of lights flashed in their direction. On-off. On-off. And then back on again for a few seconds before going permanently dark.

“That’s our man,” Kurt said, pulling his mask into place.

Joe did the same, pausing for a second. “One question,” he said. “What if those bots are in the water here, waiting to chow down on us?”

Kurt hadn’t thought about that and, quite frankly, wished Joe hadn’t either. “Then you better hope they’re not hungry,” he said.

With that, he pushed back over the side and dropped into the inky black water.

A few seconds later Joe hit the water behind him, the muted sound of his plunge reverberating through the dark.

Without delay, Kurt got his bearings and began to kick with smooth, powerful strokes, the thrust from his fins moving him swiftly through the water. It was a quiet, slow-motion approach to the beach.

As he closed in on the shore, he could hear the sound of the waves pounding, he could feel the pull of the ebb tide trying to drag him to the east. He angled slightly into it, but rather than wear himself out fighting it, he mostly rode with it.

Closer in, he focused on the swells, trying to get a rough sense of timing for the set of waves. One big swell pushed him upward, threatening to dump him face-first, but it passed, broke and sent white foam racing up onto the sand fifteen yards in front of him.

The undertow caught him as the water flowed back, but Kurt powered through it, caught the next wave and bodysurfed right up onto the beach.

Thirty feet ahead boulders offered shelter. He pulled off his fins and dashed forward, taking shelter between them. Once he was there, he pulled his mask off, unzipped the wet suit a few inches and drew out a small night vision scope. He scanned the beach and the road above it. He saw no movement, no sign of anything living.

Seventy yards to the west, an old VW bus sat parked on the road. That was their transportation.

He turned his head in time to see Joe coming up onto the beach. After a short delay, Joe sprinted to the rocks.

Kurt pointed to the van. “Not bad,” he said. “We only missed it by a football field.”

“Easier to walk that distance than to swim head-on into the current,” Joe replied.

“My thoughts exactly,” Kurt said. “Besides, on the off chance our friend has been watched or tailed, probably best not to come out of the water right in front of the getaway vehicle.”

The two men stripped out of their diving gear to reveal plain clothes. Watching for trouble, they moved down the beach in spurts until they reached the VW.

The thirty-year-old vehicle was a tawny brown color, pitted and scratched from years of flying sand. Its tires looked bald, and the VW emblem on the front was broken, missing half of the W.

“Maybe it’s a knockoff,” Kurt said.

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “a Volks Vagon.”

“Not much style to it,” Kurt said, and then, thinking of the Vespa, he added, “but at least it has four wheels.”

“You must be moving up in the world,” Joe said.

Kurt chuckled as he slid the door open. Whatever it lost on style points, the van had other attributes, including ample room for supplies, an air-cooled engine that would be more reliable crossing the desert than a water-cooled power plant, and authentic Yemen plates that Kurt hoped were current.

It was also unoccupied. Whoever Dirk Pitt had found to drop the van off had vanished. A second set of tire tracks on the soft shoulder by the road suggested the driver had been ferried off in another vehicle.

They piled into the van. Kurt made his way to the driver’s seat as Joe checked the supplies in the back.

“We’ve got boots and caftans back here,” Joe said. “Food, water and some equipment. The guy set us up well.”

Kurt looked for the key. He flipped the visor down and it dropped into his hand, along with a note.

He stuck the key in the ignition and unfolded the note as Joe made his way up front and took the passenger seat.

“It says take the coast road northeast for seven miles. Turn northwest on the paved road that marks the Eastern Highway. It will be paved for thirty miles and then become a dirt track. Continue on for exactly forty-five miles. Hide the van and hike northwest on a course of 290 for 5.2 miles. You’ll cut the corner and come upon the compound you seek. Good luck.”

“Any signature?”

“Anonymous,” Kurt said. He folded the note and tucked it away. “Whoever he is, let’s not disappoint him.”

After a quick look around, Kurt turned the key, and the engine came to life with that sound that only old VWs ever seemed to make. The gears made a grinding noise as Kurt put the van in first and released the clutch, but at least they were off and running.

He hoped to make the compound before daybreak. They had four hours.