Текст книги "Lost City"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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"I don't know where it is, but I suspect from the climate and the terrain that it's in the North Sea or Scandinavia. Maybe even Scotland." He checked his watch again. "Time's up."

The elevator door hissed open and they stepped out into a small room. The armed guard who was waiting for them barked into his walkie-talkie, then ushered them outside to a waiting minibus. The guard motioned for them to climb aboard, and then he followed, sitting in the back where he could keep an eye on the passengers. Before the guard pulled the window blinds down, Trout caught a glimpse of a long narrow cove far below the edge of the road.

After a ride of about twenty minutes over unpaved roads, the bus stopped and the guard ordered them off. They were in a complex of buildings surrounded by high barbed wire fence topped with electrical transformers. There were guards everywhere and the complex was disturbingly reminiscent of a concentration camp. The guard pointed toward a squat concrete building about the size of a ware

house. To get to it, they had to pass through more barbed wire. As they neared the building's entrance, an unearthly scream from inside the structure pierced the air. A chorus of shrieking howls followed.

Sandy's face registered her alarm. "Is this a zoo?" she said.

"I suppose you could say so," MacLean said. His grim smile was not especially reassuring. "But you'll find creatures here that the London Zoo never dreamed existed."

"I don't understand," Gamay said.

"You will."

Trout grabbed the chemist by the sleeve. "Please don't play games with us."

"Sorry at the poor attempts at humor. I've been through this little orientation one too many times and it's starting to get to me. Try not to be too alarmed at what you're about to see. The little dog and pony show is not meant to harm you, only to scare you into submission."

Trout gave him a faint smile. "You don't know how good that makes us feel, Dr. MacLean

MacLean raised a bushy eyebrow. "I can see that you're not without a bleak sense of humor yourself."

"It's my Yankee upbringing. Our long crummy winters discourage a sunny view of the world."

"Good," MacLean said. "You'll need every bit of pessimism you can summon if you are to survive this hellhole. Welcome to the strange island of Dr. Moreau," he said, referring to the fictional story of the mad scientist who transformed men into beasts.

The guard had opened the double steel security doors and the stench that poured from inside the building overpowered all thoughts. The foul odor was a minor annoyance compared with the sounds and sights in the large room.

The walls were lined with cages occupied by manlike beasts that clawed and bit at the bars. The cages held twenty-five to thirty of the

creatures. They stood on two legs and wore filthy rags, and were stooped over in a half crouch. Their long stringy white hair and beards obscured much of their faces, but there were glimpses of wizened and wrinkled features, the skin covered with dark age spots. Their mouths were open in a feral howl of rage and anger, displaying ragged and stained teeth. Their eyes were blood red and glowed with a terrifying luminosity.

Sandy had had enough. In a display of common sense, she bolted for the door, only to be blocked by a tall man dressed in army camouflage. He easily caught her by the arm and led her back into the building. He had a large nose, a sharply tapered chin and a leering mouth filled with gold teeth. A black beret was perched rakishly on his head. His presence had astrange effect on the caged creatures. They went silent at his arrival and retreated to the back of their cages.

"Good day, Dr. MacLean he said, speaking in a European accent. He eyed the Trouts, letting his gaze linger on Gamay. "These are our newest recruits?" "They are experts in our fields of study," MacLean said.

There was a flurry of activity at the door.

"What luck. You and our new guests arrived at feeding time."

A crew of guards entered, pushing a dolly stacked high with rat traps, the humane type that catches rodents without killing them. The guards unloaded the dolly, carried the traps and their squeaking occupants to the cages and released the rats.

Eyes glittering like rubies, the white-haired creatures had returned to the front of the cages. They must have been familiar with the drill because they were ready when the rats darted out of the traps. They pounced on the unfortunate rodents with the speed of panthers. Growling ferociously, they ripped the rats to pieces and devoured them with all the gusto of a gourmet in a five-star restaurant.

Sandy ran for the door again. This time, the man wearing the

beret stood aside and let her go, roaring with laughter. Gamay was tempted to follow, but she knew she would rip the man's arm off if he laid a hand on her.

"The young lady evidently does not appreciate our recycling system. We control our rat infestation and feed our pets at the same time." Turning to MacLean he said, "I hope you have told our guests what a lovely place this is."

"You are far more eloquent and persuasive than I could ever be, Colonel," MacLean said.

"That is true," the man said. He turned to face Trout. "I am Colonel Strega, the commander of this laboratory facility. The filthy devils you see enjoying their fine meals were once men like you. If you and the ladies do not do as you are told, we can make you into one of these fine-mannered fellows. Or we can feed you to them. It will all be according to my mood and generosity. The rules here are simple. You will work without complaint and in return you will be allowed to live. Do you understand?"

Trout was trying his best to ignore the gnawing and belching that issued from the cages. "I understand, Colonel, and I'll pass your message along to my weak-stomached friend."

Strega stared at Trout with his wolfish yellow eyes as if trying to memorize his face. Then he gave Gamay a 14-karat smile, clicked his heels, wheeled about and headed for the door. The guards prodded the Trouts out of the building, although they didn't need any persuasion. Strega was getting into a Mercedes convertible. Sandy was leaning against the building, vomiting. Gamay went over and put her arm around the Alvin's pilot.

"Sorry about all that," MacLean said. "Strega insists on this orientation for newcomers. It's guaranteed to scare the pants off them." "It scared more than that off me," Sandy said. "Next time I'll know to wear a diaper."

MacLean sighed. "We've all had a hard day. Let's get you settled

in your quarters. After you've had a chance to shower and change, we'll get together for a drink at my place."

The bus went another half mile, passing through more barbed and electrified fence, finally stopping at a complex laid out with a large round-roofed building surrounded by small flat-roofed structures.

"That's the lab where we'll be working," MacLean said. He pointed to a building set off by itself. "That's Strega's place. The guards have their quarters right next door. The cottages are for scientific staff. They look like bunkers, but you'll find them quite comfortable."

The guard ordered everyone off the bus and pointed the Trouts and Sandy to a pair of adjoining cottages. MacLean place was next door. Trout and Gamay went to their quarters, basically one room with an iron bed, a small table and chair and a bathroom. It was spartan but clean. They shed their clothes and took long hot showers. Trout shaved with the dull disposable razor left for him.

Two lime-colored one-piece coveralls lay neatly folded on the bed. They had no desire to get into a prison uniform, but their own clothes had smelled vile even before they visited the animal house. Trout's coveralls were somewhat short in the sleeves and legs, but not uncomfortable. The bow tie didn't match but he wore it anyhow. Gamay would have looked glamorous even in sackcloth.

They went next door to get Sandy, but she was sleeping and they decided not to awaken her. MacLean welcomed them to his cottage, which was identical to the others except for its well-stocked bar. He insisted that they call him Mac, then he poured three glasses of Scotch whiskey and took the bottle with him when they went outside. The air was cool but not uncomfortable.

"I think my quarters may be bugged," MacLean explained. "Colonel Strega is a resourceful man."

"I'm not sure I care for his sense of humor," Gamay said.

"He's better known for his other qualities. The World Court

would like to talk to him in regard to some mass graves in Bosnia. How's your drink?"

"Fine. We couldn't do better at Club Med," she said. "When I get too depressed, I pretend I'm on vacation in an out-of-the-way resort," MacLean said.

"At the resorts I've visited, lunch wasn't delivered in rat traps," Trout said.

There was an awkward silence, which was broken by Gamay. "What, or who were those loathsome creatures in those cages?" MacLean took his time answering. "Those were mistakes." "As a fellow scientist, you'll understand when we say you have to be more specific," Trout said.

"Sorry. Maybe I had better start at the beginning." MacLean poured more whiskey into his glass, took a hearty swallow and stared into space with a far-off look in his eyes.

"It seems so long ago, but it's only been three years since I was hired by a small research company outside of Paris to work with enzymes, the proteins that are produced by living cells. We were interested in the role that enzymes play in the aging process. Our company had only limited resources, so we were ecstatic when a large conglomerate absorbed our lab."

"Who was behind this conglomerate?" Trout asked. "We didn't know and we didn't care. It didn't even have a name. We received substantial raises. We were promised greater funding and resources. We didn't mind when new conditions were imposed." "What sort of conditions?"

"Under our new management, guards constantly watched us. Men in lab coats and suits, but guards nonetheless. Our movements were restricted. We lived in housing close to the lab. Company vehicles picked us up every morning and night. Those with families were allowed visitors from time to time, but all of us were warned of the secrecy of our work. We even signed contracts agreeing to the strict

rules, but you have to understand, we were giddy. We were on a quest for the true Philosopher's Stone."

"I thought you were a chemist, not an alchemist," Gamay said. "As I recall, the Philosopher's Stone was a substance that could transform base metals like lead into silver or gold."

MacLean nodded. "That's a common wzwconception. Many ancients believed that the stone was the legendary 'elixir of life." If you mixed this wonderful substance with wine, the solution could heal wounds, restore youth and prolong life. That's the stone we were looking for."

"The quest for immortality," Trout mused. "It might have been easier to turn lead into gold."

A faint smile crossed MacLean's lips. "Many times during our research I had the same thought. I often pondered the impossibility of the task we had set ourselves."

* "You're not the first to fail in that quest," Trout said.

"Oh no, Dr. Trout. You misunderstand. We didn't fail." "Hold on, Mac. You're saying the elixir of life exists?"

"Yes. We discovered it at the bottom of the sea in the hydrothermal vents of the Lost City."

They stared at MacLean wondering if the insanity of this island had turned the Scotsman into a madman.

"I've been poking my proboscis into sea mud for a long time," Trout said after a moment. "I've yet to discover anything that resembles the Fountain of Youth."

Gamay shook her head. "You'll have to excuse my skepticism. As a marine biologist, I'm more familiar than Paul with the vents, and to be honest, I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

MacLean's blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "You know more than you thinly you do, lass. Please explain why scientists around the world are excited about the microbes that have been found around the vents."

"That's easy," Gamay said, with a shrug of her shoulders. "Those bacteria are like nothing that's ever been found before. They're 'living fossils." The conditions in the Lost City are similar to those that existed at the dawn of life on earth. If you figure out how life evolved around the vents, you can see how it could have started on earth, or even other planets."

"Exactly right. My work started with a simple premise. If you had something involved in the creation of life, maybe it could extend life as well. Our company had access to samples taken on earlier expeditions to the Lost City. The enzyme these microbes produced was the key."

"In what way?"

"Every living creature on earth is programmed for one task, to reproduce itself as many times as possible. Once its job is done, it becomes redundant, thus all organisms have a built-in self-destruct gene that dispatches them to make way for future generations. In human beings, sometimes the gene is activated prematurely and you have Werner's progeria, where an eight-year-old child looks like an eighty-year-old. We reasoned that if this gene can be switched on, it could be switched off, with the result that you slow aging."

"How would you test something like that?" Trout said. "You'd have to give it to test subjects and wait decades to see if they lived longer than your control group."

"That's a good point. There would be patent issues as well. Your patent could expire before you got your product on the market. But this enzyme not only switches the gene off, it serves as a super antioxidant disarming free radicals. Not only can it retard the chemical processes that lead to aging, it can restore youth as well." "The Philosopher's Stone?" "Yes. Now you understand." "You actually succeeded in doing this?" Trout said.

"Yes, in lab animals. We took mice that were senior citizens by human standards and restored their youth dramatically." "How dramatically?"

"We had mice whose age in human years was ninety and reduced it to forty-five."

"You're saying you reversed the animal's age in half?" "Absolutely. Muscle tone. Bone structure. Energy levels. Reproductive capacity. The mice were even more surprised by it than we were."

"That's a remarkable achievement," Gamay said, "but human beings are a lot more complicated than mice."

"Yes," he said with a sigh. "We know that now." Gamay picked up on MacLean's unspoken message. "You experimented on human beings, didn't you?" "Not my original team. It would have been years before we conducted trials involving humans. We would have done it under the most stringent of conditions." He gulped his drink, as if it could wash away unpleasant memories. "My team presented its preliminary findings and we heard nothing for a while. Then we were informed that the team was being disbanded, the lab broken up. It was all quite civilized. A handshake and a smile. We even received bonuses. Some time later, while he was clearing off his computer files, a colleague came across a videotape detailing human experiments. They were being conducted on an island somewhere."

Trout pointed to the ground at their feet. "Here?" "A reasonable assumption, wouldn't you say?" MacLean said. "What happened next?"

"We made a second fatal mistake in underestimating the ruthlessness of these people. We went back to the company as a group and demanded that they stop. We were told that the subjects were all volunteers, and that it was none of our business anymore. We threatened to go public with the information. They asked us to wait. Within a week, members of my former team began to have fatal 'accidents." Hit-and-run. Fires. Electrocuted by unwise use of home appliances and tools. A few healthy men had heart attacks. Twenty-one in all."

Trout let out a low whistle. "You think they were murdered?" "I know they were murdered." "Did the police suspect foul play?" Gamay asked. "Yes, in a few cases, but they could never prove anything. My colleagues had gone home to a number of different countries. And as I said, we were working in secret." "Yet you survived," she said.

"Sheer luck. I was away on an archaeological dig. Hobby of mine. When I came home, I found a message from a colleague, since murdered, warning me my life was in danger. I ran off to Greece, but my former employers tracked me down and brought me here." "Why didn't they kill you, too?"

MacLean laughed without humor. "They wanted me to lead a reconstituted research team. Seems they were too smart for their britches. After they killed off the original team, flaws began to surface in the formula. It was inevitable with research this complex. You saw their mistakes dancing around in their cages a little while ago."

"You're saying that this youth elixir created those snarling beasts?"

Trout said.

MacLean smiled. "We told the fools that more work was needed. The enzyme has a different effect on humans. We're complicated creatures, as you say. There was a delicate balance involved. In the wrong mix, the chemical simply killed the subject. In others it triggered progeria. With those poor brutes you saw, the substance reached back in time and brought out the aggressive traits that served

our ancestors well when they were reptiles or apes. Don't let their appearance deceive you. They still have human intelligence, as Strega learned."

"What do you mean?"

"There are two types of creatures. The Alphas were part of the original experiment, which I'm told started many years ago. The Betas were created in the most recent round of experimentation. Not long ago, a number of them managed to escape. Apparently, they were led by the Alphas. They constructed a crude raft and landed on another island, where they killed a number of people. Strega hunted them down and brought them back. He subjected some of the Alphas to the most awful tortures before killing them in view of others as a lesson."

"If they're so much trouble, why do they keep them around?" Gamay said.

"Apparently, our employers believe they have some value. A bit like us. Disposable tools. The latest test subjects were illegal immigrants from poor countries who thought they were going to Europe or America for jobs and a better life."

Trout's jaw hardened. "That's one of the most monstrous schemes I've ever heard of. One thing I can't figure. Why did these goons hijack the Alvin and kidnap us?"

"The enzyme has a short shelf life. They built the sub so the enzyme can be extracted as soon as it is harvested. It's separated from the microbes. Once it is stabilized, the submarine transports the finished product here for further research and development. They knew about your expedition. They must have been afraid their undersea mining project would be discovered. By chance, you were within minutes of discovering it."

"It wasn't chance at all. We were looking for the source of Gorgonweed," Gamay said.

"Now it's my turn to be puzzled. What is Gorgonweed?" "It's a mutated form of a common alga," Gamay said. "It's been causing havoc around the world. The source of this mutation was traced back to the Lost City. We were trying to pinpoint its exact cause. We didn't advertise this part of the expedition because we didn't want to panic people. The situation is far worse than anyone has said in public." "In what way?"

Gamay said, "If the weed is allowed to proliferate, the oceans would become nothing but huge soggy mats of vegetation. Ocean commerce would be impossible. Ports would be closed. Most species of fish would die, creating a huge disruption of the food chain that is bound to affect land production. The weather created by normal ocean cycles would become chaotic. Governments will fall. There will be disease and famine. Millions of people would die." "Dear God. I was afraid something like that could happen." "What do you mean?" Gamay said.

"The microbes were perfectly harmless in their natural habitat. There was always the possibility that they would migrate once we disturbed their habitat. They have evidently mutated the genes of higher organisms." "Can it be reversed?"

"There is a good chance we could apply the work we're doing now to the solution."

"Do you think Colonel Strega would be open to a suggestion that we direct our energies toward saving the world from a Gorgonweed infestation?" Trout said.

MacLean laughed. "Colonel Strega believes this camp is the world. And that he is God."

"All the more reason to escape," Trout said.

"These people that kidnapped us must have known that a massive search would be launched for the Alvin," Gamay said.

MacLean looked into his empty glass, and then his eyes met hers. "According to Strega, the situation would be taken care of. He didn't go into details, but a number of the mutants were removed from the island not long ago. I think they had something to do with the plan."

"No details?"

MacLean shook his head.

Trout forced himself to deal with the problem at hand.

"You said you were brought back here to reconstitute a scientific team," he said.

"Yes, there are six other unfortunate souls who were lured here, like the immigrants, with promises of work. You'll meet them at dinner. Our employer took great pains to make sure they were single people with little or no family attachments."

"How long do we have?"

"We have all known that we will be killed as soon as we extract the pure elixir. We've dragged our heels as much. as we can, while showing some progress. It's been a delicate balance. A shipment of the elixir went out while we were on the sub."

"What does that mean for us?"

"We'll become redundant after the formula gets to its destination and our employers see if it will work."

"Will it?"

MacLean nodded. "Oh yes. The initial results will be quite swift and dramatic. Once Strega gets the word, he will start throwing us to the animals, one by one." He shook his head. "I'm afraid I rescued you only to bring you into a situation with no hope."

Trout rose from his chair and gazed around the camp, thinking that the rugged beauty of the island was out of place with the horrors he had seen.

"Any ideas?" he said.

"I think it would be helpful if Mac told us everything he knows

about this place," Gamay said. "Every detail, no matter how silly or stupid it seems."

"If you're still thinking of escape, forget it," MacLean said bleakly. "There's no way."

Gamay glanced at her husband. "There's always a way," she said with a smile. "We just don't know what it is."

SKYE HAD SLIPPED into a deep slumber by the time Austin had crawled into the warm auberge featherbed. She clung to his side throughout the night, her sleep frequently disturbed by feverish murmurings of red death and dark water. Austin's nerves were on edge as well. Several times, he pried himself loose from Skye's hot grip and went to the window. Except for the moths fluttering around the inn's lighted sign, all was still. But Austin was far from complacent. The Fauchard family had a long reach.

After a fitful night's sleep, they were awakened by bright sunlight flooding their room. They put on the terry cloth bathrobes that Skye found in a closet and they had breakfast sent up to their room. Austin had tossed their tattered costumes into the trash. They recruited the maid who brought their food and sent her to shop for clothes. Fortified with a cup of strong coffee, Skye regained her usual sparkle, but Chateau Fauchard still weighed heavily on her mind.

"Should we report the Fauchards to the authorities?" she asked. "The Fauchards are a rich and powerful family," Austin said. "That doesn't mean they're above the law," she said.

"I agree with you. What part of our story do you think the police would believe? The Pit and the Pendulum or The Cask of Amontillado?"

If we make a fuss, we might even be accused of stealing Emil's plane."

"I see what you mean," she said with a frown. "Well then, what do we do?"

"Go back to Paris. Regroup. Dig out every bit of dirt we can on the Fauchards." Austin cleared his throat. "Who's going to tell your friend Darnay that his bullet-riddled Rolls-Royce is at the bottom of a castle moat?"

"I'll inform him. Don't worry, Charles was thinking of turning it in for a Bentley. He'll simply report it stolen." Her lips widened in her usual sunny smile. "Knowing Charles, I'd guess it was stolen to begin with." A dark cloud cast a shadow over her smile. "Do you believe what that poor Englishman Cavendish said? That the Fauchards started World War One and had at least some responsibility for the Second World War?"

Austin chewed on the question along with a bite of croissant. "Dunno. It takes more than a few people to start a war. Hubris, stupidity and miscalculation play a big role."

"True, but think about it, Kurt. In 1914, the Great Powers were led by some of the most inept leaders in history. The decision to start war was in the hands of a few people. None were particularly intelligent. A tsar or a kaiser didn't have to ask his people for permission to go to war. Couldn't a small, wealthy and determined group like the Fauchards and other arms manufacturers manipulate these leaders, play off their deficiencies and influence their decisions? Then provide an event like the Grand Duke's assassination that would start the shooting?"

"Certainly possible. World War Two was a different situation, but you had the same volatile mixture waiting for a spark to trigger the explosion."

"Then you do think there is something to the charges?"

"Now that I've met the Fauchards, mere andfds, I would agree that if anyone could start a war, it would be them. The murderous way they reacted when Cavendish shot his mouth off speaks volumes."

She shivered as she recalled the Englishman's demise. "Cavendish claimed that Jules Fauchard was trying to stop the war," Skye said. "We know he got only as far as the Dormeur glacier. If he had made it across the Alps, he would have landed in Switzerland."

"I see where you're going. A neutral country where he could have revealed to the world what his family was plotting." He paused. "Let's think about it. Fauchard was rich and influential, but he would need proof to make his case. Documents or secret papers."

"Of course!" Skye said. "The strongbox that Jules was carrying with him. The Fauchards didn't want their dirty little family secret getting out."

"I'm still puzzled," Austin said, after a moment's thought. "Say we managed to exhume Jules's body and salvage incriminating documents. The Fauchards could weather the bad publicity. They would hire a high-priced PR firm to put spin on the story. They could say that the documents were forgeries. Outside of a few historians, I'm not sure if anybody would care so long after the fact."

"Then why did they resort to flooding the tunnel, killing Renaud and trying to killing us?"

"Here's another theory. Let's suppose Spear Industries is on the verge of a big deal. A merger. A new product. Maybe even a new war," he said with a wry grin. "Headlines about the family's unsavory past could spoil their plans."

"That would make sense," she said.

"What doesn't make sense is why Jules had the helmet with him."

"The Fauchards are eccentric," she ventured.

"You're being kind," Austin said, with a frown. "They are homicidal maniacs, but they don't act without a purpose. I think that the Fauchards were not simply worried about their family history being

exposed. They desperately want to retrieve the helmet. There is something about that old steel pot that is of great importance to them. We have to find out what it is."

"Perhaps Charles has made progress in his examination. I must go see him as soon as I can."

A knock at the door interrupted their discussion. The maid had returned from her mission with shopping bags in hand. Austin had some cash and credit cards along with his passport in a neck wallet. He gave the maid a substantial tip, and then he and Skye tried on their new outfits. The red dress fit Skye's trim figure like a fine glove. Austin tried on his black slacks and white shirt. Conservative, but they wouldn't attract attention.

The desk clerk called a car rental for them, and while the Peugeot they rented was no Rolls, the drive back to Paris through the sunny countryside helped clear away the lingering cobwebs from the Fauchard catacombs. Austin kept a heavy foot on the gas. The more distance he put between them and the chateau, the better.

Austin almost launched into the "Marseillaise" when he saw the spike of the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance. A short while later, they were in Paris. Austin swung by Skye's apartment and she called the antiques dealer to let him know she was coming to Provence. Darnay was delighted to hear her plans, saying they had much to discuss. Skye packed an overnight bag and Austin dropped her off at the railroad station, where she kissed him on both cheeks before boarding a train south.

The hotel desk clerk smiled broadly when Austin came up for his key.

"Ah, Monsieur Austin. We're so glad to have you back. A gentleman has been waiting here for some time to see you." He glanced toward the lobby.

A figure was stretched out in a comfortable leather chair, apparently asleep. A copy of Le Figaro covered his face. Austin went over,

lifted the paper and saw the dark-complexioned features of Joe Zavala.

Austin tapped Zavala's shoulder. "Hotel security," he said in an Inspector Clouseau accent. "You'll have to come along with me."

Zavala blinked his eyes open. "About time."

"Feeling's mutual, old pal. I thought you were in the Alps improving Franco-American relations."

Zavala sat up in the chair. "Denise wanted me to meet her parents. That's always a bad sign. Where have you been? I tried calling, but there was no answer on your cell."

Austin flopped down in a chair. "There's a good explanation for that. My cell phone is at the bottom of a castle moat."

"I must admit that's one excuse I've never heard before. Should I ask how it got there?"

"Long story. What was so urgent that you had to camp out in a hotel lobby?"

Zavala's face became uncharacteristically som be "Rudi called me when he couldn't reach you." Rudi Gunn was Pitt's second-in-command. "There's been an accident at the Lost City site. Paul and Gamay dove in the Alvin. They never came up. There was a pilot aboard, too."