Текст книги "Lost City"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Weebel picked out a tall square case, which he brought into the workshop. He set it on a table and lifted out the Fauchard helmet. Skye eyed the embossed face and thought back to the portrait of Jules she had seen at the Fauchard chateau.

"A remarkable piece. Remarkable. Aha." Weebel waved his hands over the helmet like a fortune-teller looking into a crystal ball. "I had my metallurgist look at it. The iron used to make the steel was most unusual. He believes it may have come from a meteorite."

Darnay smiled at Skye. "That was Mademoiselle Labelle's theory. Have you dated this piece?"

"Some of the design features were innovative, as. you pointed out. I would place it in the fifteen hundreds, which is when the embossing of human or animal facial characteristics into the visor caught on. It is possible that the metal itself is much older, and that the helmet was recast from an earlier one. This dent is a proof mark apparently made to test the vulnerability of the metal to a bullet. It did very well at stopping the projectile. Not so well with this hole. It could have been made at close range or by a firearm of great power, perhaps at a more recent date. Maybe someone used this for target practice." "What about the manufacturer?"

"The helmet is one of the finest pieces I've ever seen. Look here on the inside. Not a hammer dimple mark to be seen. Even without the hallmark, I would know that there was only one armor maker that made such high-quality metal. The Fauchard family." "What can you tell me about the manufacturer?" Skye said. "The Fauchards were one of only three families that founded the

guild that became what we know today as Spear Industries. Each family specialized in a certain area. One family forged the metal, the other fashioned the actual armor. The Fauchards were the sales arm, which sent agents traveling around Europe to sell their wares. They were well connected politically as a result. Normally they did not use their hallmark. They believed that the quality of their armor spoke for itself, which is why it is strange to see that they engraved their coat of arms into the crown of this piece. The helmet must have special significance to the family."

"Madame Fauchard told me that each eagle head stands for the original founding families," Skye said.

Weebel's eyes did a quick flutter. "You actually spoke to Madame Fauchard?" Skye nodded.

uExtraordinary. It is said she is a total recluse. What was she like?" "A combination of a scorpion and a black widow spider," Skye answered without hesitation. "She said the eagle in the middle represents the Fauchards, who came to dominate the company through death and marriage."

Weebel burst forth with a nervous laugh. "Did she tell you that many of these deaths were untimely and the marriages were mostly forced to cement their power?"

"Madame Fauchard is very selective when it comes to talking about her family. For instance, she denies the story that they were powerful enough to instigate World War One, and had a hand in promoting World War Two."

"Those rumors have circulated for many years. A number of arms merchants encouraged and facilitated the war. The Fauchards were in the thick of it. Aha. Where did you hear that story?"

"From an Englishman named Cavendish. He also said the Fauchards stole his family's process for making steel."

"Ah, Sir Cavendish. Yes, that's quite true. His family came up

with a superior steel process. The Fauchards stole it." His fingers caressed the helmet. "Tell me, do you see anything unusual about the eagle design?"

She inspected the helmet and saw nothing she hadn't seen before.

"Wait. I see it. There are more spears in one claw than the other."

"A sharp eye, aha. I noticed the same thing and compared it to the Fauchard coat of arms. The number of spears in each claw is even in the original hallmark. When I examined the helmet more closely, I found that the extra spear was added long after it was fabricated. Probably within the last hundred years or so."

"Why would anyone do that?" Skye said.

Weebel smiled mysteriously and placed the helmet under a magnifying glass attached to a stand. "See for yourself, Mademoiselle Labelle." Skye peered through the glass for a moment. "The spear shaft and head are actually writing of some sort. Numbers and letters. Come look, Charles."

Darnay took a turn at the magnifier. "It seems to be an algebraic equation."

"Yes, yes, aha. That was my feeling as well," Weebel said. "I have been unable to decipher it. A specialist is needed."

"Kurt said this helmet may contain the key that unlocks the Fauchard puzzle," Skye said. "I must get it back to Paris so I can show it to a cryptologist or a mathematician at the university."

"That's unfortunate," Weebel said. "I had hoped to reproduce this lovely piece. Later, perhaps?"

Skye smiled. "Yes, Monsieur Weebel. Maybe later." He replaced the helmet in its case and handed it to Skye. She and Darnay thanked him and said their good-byes. She asked Darnay to take her to the train station. He was disappointed at her decision to leave, and tried to persuade her to stay. She said she was anxious to get back to Paris, but promised to return soon for a longer visit.

"If that is your decision I must respect it," Darnay said. "Will you be seeing Mr. Austin?"

"I hope so. We have a dinner engagement. Why do you ask?" "I fear that you may be in danger and would feel better if I knew he was around to keep an eye on you."

"I can take care of myself, Charles." She kissed him on the cheeks. "But if it makes you feel any better, I will call Kurt on my cell phone." "That does make me feel better. Please give me a ring when you get home."

"You worry too much," she said. "But I'll call you." True to her word, she tried to call Austin as the the train sped north. The clerk at Austin's hotel said he had left a message for her. "He said he had a matter of some urgency to attend to and would be in touch with you."

She wondered what was so urgent that he would leave on such short notice, but from what she had seen, Austin was very much a man of action, and she was not surprised. She was sure he would call her as promised. The trip from Aix took just under three hours. It was late evening when the train arrived back in Paris. She hailed a taxi to take her back to her apartment.

She paid her fare and was walking up to her door when someone said in a loud voice: "Excusez mwa. Parlay-voo Anglay?"

She turned, and in the illumination from the streetlight saw a tall, middle-aged man standing behind her. The smiling woman by his side had a Michelin Green Guide clutched in her hand.

Tourists. Probably American, from the atrocious accent. "Yes, I speak English," she said. "Are you lost?"

The man grinned sheepishly. "Are we ever." "My husband hates to ask directions even at home," the woman said. "We are looking for the Louvre."

Skye tried not to smile, wondering why anyone would want to find the Louvre at night. "It's on the Right Bank. You are some distance from it. But it is a short walk to the Metro station and the train will take you there. I can give you directions."

"We have a map in our car," the woman said. "Perhaps you could show us where we are."

Even worse. Paris was no place for drivers who didn't know the city. She followed them to their car, which was pulled up at the curb. The woman opened the back door, leaned in, then pulled her head out.

"Would you reach across the seat and get the map, dear? My back "

"Of course." Holding the bag with the helmet in her left hand, Skye leaned into the car but saw no map on the seat. Then she felt a pinprick on her right haunch, as if she had been stung by a bee. As she put her hand on the sting in reflex, she was aware that the Americans were staring at her. Inexplicably, their faces started to dissolve.

"Are you all right, dear?" the woman said.

"I " Skye's tongue felt thick. The thought she. was trying to express fell apart.

"Why don't you sit for a minute?" the man said, pressing her into the car.

His voice seemed to come from far away. She was too weak to resist when he took the helmet case from her hands. The woman slid in beside her and shut the door. Skye was vaguely aware that the man had gone around to the driver's seat and that the car was moving. She looked out the window but saw only blurred images.

Then a black curtain descended over her eyes.

TROUT WAS THE picture of scientific diligence as he checked the graph displayed on the spectrometer screen and jotted down his observations in a notebook. It was the third time he had analyzed the same mineral sample from the Lost City and the note taking had nothing to do with what was on the screen. Using his talks with MacLean as a guide, Trout was drawing a sketch of the island.

The laboratory didn't look like much from the outside. It was housed in three Quonset huts that had served as support crew quarters for the old British submarine base that once occupied the island. Two of the half-cylinder-shaped buildings of corrugated steel had been welded together end-to-end. A third hut was attached at the midsection so that the lab space was in the form of a large T. An entire hut was taken up by batching vats and the rest of the space was used for scientific analysis.

The dull-olive exteriors were patched with rust and projected a general air of neglect, but inside, the huts were warm and well lit. The spacious lab was equipped with state-of-the-art scientific tools,

as up-to-date as anything Trout had seen in a NUMA facility. The main difference was the addition of the guards, who idled near each door with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.

MacLean said he had been brought in by plane, which had given him a bird's-eye view of the island. As the plane made its approach, he'd seen that the island was shaped like a teacup. High vertical cliffs ran around the perimeter of the island, broken in one place by a long, tapering harbor. A crescent-shaped beach about a half mile long was sandwiched between the harbor and low cliffs that rose sharply to a high wall whose face was snow-white with a swirling blizzard of seabirds.

The submarine pen was at the head of the inlet. A road ran from the crew quarters above the pen's entrance, along the cliffs that bordered the harbor. After the road passed an abandoned church and moldering graveyards and the ruins of an old fishing village, it merged with another way that led inland, climbing through a narrow pass, then descending to the island's interior, once the caldera of a long-dead volcano.

In contrast to the rocky ramparts that protected it from the sea, the interior was rolling moorland dotted here and there by small thickets of tenacious scrub pine and oak. The road eventually terminated in the former naval base that now housed the lab complex under Strega's command.

MacLean was walking across the lab toward Trout's station. "Sorry to interrupt your work," he said. "How is your analysis coming?"

Trout tapped the notepad with his pen. "I'm between a rock and a hard place, Mac."

MacLean leaned over Trout's shoulder as if they were conferring. "I've just come from a meeting with Strega," he said in a low voice. "Evidently the test of the formula was a success."

"Congratulations, I suppose So that means we have outlived our usefulness? Why aren't we dead already?"

"Strega may be a murderous lout, but he's a meticulous organizer. He'll see to the details of wrapping up the operation on the island first, so he'll have time to enjoy himself without distraction. My guess is that tomorrow he'll take us on a lovely picnic and have us dig our own graves. "

"That gives us tonight," Trout said. He handed the notebook to MacLean "How does this jibe with your observance of the island topography?"

MacLean examined the map. "You have a skill at cartography. It's accurate in every detail. What now?"

"Here's how I see it, Mac. As Kurt Austin would say, KISS." "Pardon me?"

"Keep it simple, stupid. We go through the pass, which so happens to be the only way out. Get to the harbor. You said there was a pier there."

"I couldn't be sure. We came in at dusk."

"It's a reasonable assumption. We'll assume that where there is a pier there's a boat. We borrow the boat. Then once we're at sea, we figure out where we are."

"What about contingencies in case something goes wrong?" "There are no contingencies. If something goes wrong, we're dead. But it's worth a try when you consider the alternative."

MacLean studied Trout's face. Behind the academic features was an unmistakable strength and resolve. His mouth widened in a grim smile. "The simplicity appeals to me. It's the execution of the plan that's worrisome."

Trout winced. "I'd prefer to not use the word execution." "Sorry for letting my pessimism show. These people have beaten me down. I'll give it everything I've got."

Trout leaned back in his chair in thought and stared across the room at Gamay and Sandy, who sat side by side examining specimens from the thermal vents. Then his eye swept across the lab, where the other scientists were immersed in their tasks, blissfully unaware of their approaching doom. MacLean joined him in his gaze. "What about these other poor souls?"

"Could Strega have embedded any of them to keep an eye on us?" "I've talked to every one on the train. Their fear for their lives is as genuine as ours is."

Trout's jaw hardened as he realistically considered the complexities of an escape and the chances that any plan would go awry.

"It's going to be risky enough with the four of us. A large group would attract more attention. Our only hope is to make it out of the lab complex in one piece. If we can get control of a boat, it will have a position finder and a radio. We can call in help."

"And if we can't?"

"We'll all be on the same sinking ship." "Very well. How do you propose to get us past the men guarding the electrified fence?"

"I've been thinking of that. We're going to have to create a distraction."

"It will have to be a big one. Strega's men are all professional killers."

"They might have their hands full trying to save their own skins." MacLean's face turned gray when Trout outlined his plan. "My God, man. Things could get completely out of control." "I'm hoping that's exactly what happens. If we can't commandeer transportation, we'll have to go it on foot, which means we will need every minute we can gain."

"Don't look now, but one of the guards is watching," MacLean said. "I'm going to gesture and wave my arms as if I'm angry and frustrated. Don't be alarmed." "Be my guest." MacLean pointed to the spectrometer screen and scowled. He picked the notebook up, slammed it down, muttered a few curses,

then stalked off across the room. Trout stood and stared at MacLean back with a frown on his face. The guard laughed at the confrontation, then pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and stepped outside for a smoke.

Trout got up and walked across the lab to break the good news to Gamay and Sandy.

AUSTIN STEPPED through the front door of a noisy pub called the Bloody Sea Serpent and walked across the smoke-filled room to the corner table, where Zavala was, chatting with a toothless man who looked like a Scottish version of the Old Man of the Sea. Zavala saw Austin enter and shook hands with the man, who then rejoined the crowd at the bar.

Austin sat down in the now-vacant chair and said, "Glad to see that you're making friends."

"It's not easy for a Mexican American boy like me. Their accents are as thick as chili, and as if things weren't tough enough, there isn't a single ounce of tequila in the whole town." He lifted his pint of lager to emphasize the terrible state of affairs.

"Appalling," Austin said, with a distinct lack of sympathy. He signaled a waitress, and a minute later he was sipping on a pint of stout. "How did your mission go?" Zavala said.

In reply, Austin reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulled out a key ring and dropped it on the table. "You see before you the

key for the newest addition to NUMA's worldwide fleet of state-of-the-art vessels."

"Did you run into any problems?" Zavala said. Austin shook his head. "I strolled along the fish pier and picked out the worst-looking boat I could find. Then I made the owner an offer he couldn't refuse." "He wasn't suspicious?"

"I said I was an American TV producer doing a program on the Outcasts mystery and that we needed the boat right away. After I showed him the money, I could have told him I was from the Planet NUMA, for all he cared. He'll be able to buy a new boat with this windfall. We executed a quick bill of sale to make it legal. I pledged him to silence and promised him a bit part in the show."

"Did he have any theories about the disappearance of the missing Outcasts crew?"

"Lots of them. Mostly waterfront gossip. He said the police combed the island but the authorities have been keeping a tight lid on information. According to the scuttlebutt around the waterfront, the investigators found traces of blood and body parts. People don't seem overly disturbed about the whole thing. There's a rumor that it was all a publicity stunt and the missing crew will pop up on a tropical isle somewhere for a new show. They figure the lone survivor is an actress being paid big bucks to pony up a story about the red-eyed cannibals. What about your sources?"

"I picked up some of the same stuff from the guy I was just talking to. He's been around since kilts were invented and knows everyone and everything. I said I was a sport diver and bought a few rounds," Zavala said.

"Did your friend mention any connection between the Outcasts incident and the island?" Austin said.

"There was talk at first," Zavala said. "Then the publicity stunt rumor began to circulate and that was that."

"How far is the island from the Outcasts set?" "About five miles. The locals think it's a semiofficial operation, and that it's still owned by the government," Zavala said. "Given the place's history, it isn't far-fetched. The fishermen avoid the place. Armed patrol boats pop out the minute anyone even thinks of getting close. Some fishermen swear they've been tailed by miniature subs." "That would fit in with what we know from the satellite photos," said Austin. "They must have encountered the AUV watchdog."

The pub's door opened and the fisherman who'd sold Austin his boat stepped inside. Austin figured the man would buy everyone in the house a drink, and didn't want to get drawn into any good luck celebration and the inevitable questions that would arise. He drained his mug and suggested that Zavala do the same. They left by the pub's back door and stopped off at their rooming house to pick up their gear bags. Minutes later, they were walking along a narrow cobblestone lane that took them to the fog-shrouded harbor.

Austin led the way along the line of boats and stepped in front of a vessel about twenty-five feet long. The lapstrake, or "clinker-built" wooden hull of overlapping planking, had an up swept bow built for rough seas. The deck was open except for a small wheelhouse near the bow. Even in the gauzy mists, they could see that the boat was being held together by numerous coats of paint.

"She's what the local fishermen call a 'creeler," " Austin said. "The former owner says she was built in '71."

"Is that 1871 or 1971?" Zavala said, chuckling. "Can't wait to see Pitt's face when he gets the bill for this little luxury yacht." "Knowing Pitt, I think he'd understand," Austin said. Zavala read the name on the stern. "Spooter?" "It's the local term for a razor clam. Spoot is supposed to have aphrodisiac qualities."

"Really," Zavala said, his interest piqued. "I suppose it makes about as much sense as rhino horn."

They climbed aboard the boat, and Zavala surveyed the deck while Austin poked his head into a wheelhouse about as big as two telephone booths put together. The cabin reeked of stale cigarette smoke and diesel fumes. When Austin came back out, Zavala stomped his foot on the planking.

"Feels solid enough."

"This old rust bucket is actually more seaworthy than she looks. Let's see if she has a chart."

Austin rummaged around in the wheelhouse and found a grease-smeared map that showed the island to be ten miles across the bay from the boatyard. Austin pointed to the island's harbor and explained the plan he had been mulling over to Zavala.

"What do you think of it?"

"A low-tech solution to a high-tech challenge. I think it can work. When do we go?"

"No time like the present," Austin said. "I persuaded the former owner to throw in a full tank of fuel."

He went into the pilothouse. In short order, they had the engine warming up, gear stowed and a compass course set. The boat had seen some hard times, but its electronics were fairly new and would allow them to navigate the unfamiliar waters in the night fog.

Zavala cast off the mooring lines while Austin took the helm and pointed the bow out of the harbor. The engine chortled and gasped as if it were on its last legs, but the Spooler pushed its way through the swirling mists and began its voyage to the mysterious island.

FOR A MAN who was nearly seven feet tall, Trout moved with uncommon stealth. Only the sharpest eye would have seen him slip out of the prisoners' compound shortly after midnight. He darted from shadow to shadow, staying away from the floodlights. His excessive caution proved to be unnecessary. No guards patrolled the compound and the watchtowers were unoccupied. Drunken laughter and loud music drifted from the bunkhouse, where the guards were having a party. Trout surmised that the guards were celebrating the end of their boring duty on this lonely outpost. The raucous noise grew fainter as Trout trotted along a dirt road away from the bunkhouse. No longer making an attempt to conceal himself, he covered the distance rapidly with his long-legged stride. He knew he was nearing his goal when the stench hit his nostrils. His resolve faltered as he considered the task he had set himself, but he set his jaw and pressed on toward the chamber of horrors Colonel Strega had facetiously referred to as the "Zoo."

Trout slowed to a walk as he entered the floodlit area around the concrete building and went directly to the front door. He ran the

beam of his flashlight around the doorjamb, but saw no indication of alarm connections. No one could imagine the blockhouse being broken into, Trout mused, although that was exactly what he was about to do.

The double steel doors could have withstood a battering ram, but they were secured only with an ordinary padlock. Using a hammer and sharp-edged chisel borrowed from the lab, where the tools were used to chip rock samples, he made short work of the latch. He looked around, almost wishing someone would stop him, then opened the doors and stepped into the building.

The awful smell inside hit him like a baseball bat and he had to stifle his gag reflex. The big room was in semidarkness, illuminated by a few dim ceiling lights. His noisy entry must have alerted the Zoo's occupants because he heard faint stirrings in the darkened cells. Pairs of burning red eyes watched his every move. Trout felt like a clam at a clambake.

He ran his flashlight beam along the wall until he found a switch. As the room flooded with light, a chorus of snarls filled the air and the creatures retreated to the back of their cages. Perceiving after a moment that Trout was no threat, they crept back and pressed their nightmarish faces against the bars.

Trout sensed that these creatures were regarding him with more than feral hunger. They were curious, and their low growls and mutterings were a form of communication. He reminded himself that they had carried off a murderous raid on a neighboring island and it would be a mistake to think of these creatures as mere animals. They were once human, and they could think.

Trout tried to ignore their unwavering gazes and went about his inspection of the room. He found what he was looking for behind a metal wall panel and his fingers played over a rank of switches with numbers that corresponded to those painted over each cage. The numbers were labeled Alpha and Beta. He hesitated, thinking about

the hell forces he was about to unleash. Now or never. He hit a switch labeled alpha as an experiment. A motor hummed and a cage door slid open with a metallic clank. The creature occupying the cell dashed to the back of his cage, and then it inched forward, pausing at the open door as if suspecting a trick.

Trout hit the other switches in rapid succession. Door after door clanged. Still, none of the creatures ventured out. They were gibbering and gesturing at each other in a primitive communication. Trout didn't hang around to tune in on the conversation. Having unleashed the demons, he ran for the door.

MACLEAN WAS waiting with Gamay and Sandy in a thick stand of trees about a hundred yards from the compound's gate. In outlining his plan, Trout had told them to slip away from their cottages as soon as he was on his way and to stay hidden until he rejoined them. MacLean had heard the drunken party going on at the bunkhouse, but he was still nervous, having known the unpredictable guards longer than Trout. His worst fears were realized when he heard the sound of pounding feet. Someone was running toward him. He strained his eyes against the darkness, not knowing whether to run or fight.

Then someone called out "Mac." It was Trout. Gamay stepped from the trees and grabbed him in a tight hug. "I am so glad to see you," she said.

"For god sakes man," MacLean said. "I thought something had happened."

Trout caught his breath. "It was easier than I thought." Trout tensed as a figure emerged from the trees, then another, until all six of their fellow scientists were gathered around. "I'm sorry," MacLean said. "I couldn't leave them." "It was my idea," Gamay said.

"Don't worry. I changed my mind and was about to go back for them myself. Is everybody here?"

"Yes," one of the scientists said. "No one saw us. But what do we do now?"

"We wait," Trout replied. He made his way through the trees and took up a post behind an oak where he had a clear view of the main gate. Two guards lounged in front of the sentry house. He returned to the others and told them to be patient.

Trout knew he had taken a calculated risk in releasing the creatures from their cages. Once they tasted freedom, they might simply bolt for the hills. He gambled that their urge to run would be tempered by an all-too-human emotion, a thirst for revenge against those who had tormented and imprisoned them.

He checked the gate again. The guards were smoking cigarettes and passing a bottle back and forth. If they couldn't join the party, at least they could have one of their own. He eased his way back through to the other side of the copse, where he had an unobstructed view of the Zoo.

In his hasty exit, he had left the doors of the blockhouse partially open. A sliver of light came from inside the building. He saw dark shapes begin to emerge from the building. They paused, went on, moving like a skirmish line toward the guards' quarters, and vanished into the shadows.

From the sounds of coarse laughter and music, the party was in full tilt, and for a moment Trout feared that he had miscalculated. Then, quite suddenly, the laughter stopped. It was replaced by shouted curses, a couple of gunshots, then screams of pain and terror.

Trout could only imagine the blood bath that was going on, and he couldn't help but feel some pity for the guards. But he reminded himself that the guards were prepared to wipe out their prisoners at a word from Strega.

The sentries at the gate had heard the strange racket coming from

their quarters. They conferred with each other, unsure of what to do. They seemed to be arguing. They halted their heated discussion when they saw headlights moving their way. They raised their automatic weapons and aimed at the fast-approaching vehicle, which was zigzagging and blowing its horn.

The vehicle entered the floodlit area near the gate and Trout saw that it was Strega's convertible and the front and back seats were hidden under a mass of writhing bodies. More creatures hung onto the hood. Others dangled from the sides, resisting the driver's efforts to dislodge them with violent swerves.

The guards swept the oncoming vehicle with automatic gunfire. Two of the creatures dropped off the hood and rolled on the ground, splitting the night with their fearful screams, but the others hung on. The car made a violent turn, went out of control, and smashed broadside into the guardhouse. The impact dislodged the creatures, and the driver's door flew open. Colonel Strega emerged from the driver's side, pistol in hand. His razor-creased uniform way bloodstained and in tatters. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds to his head and body.

He staggered a few feet and fired off a wild round that killed one of the attackers, but before he could get off another shot the remaining creatures knocked the colonel to the ground. Trout could see his arms and legs flailing from under the thrashing bodies that swarmed over him and then the colonel stiffened and went still. The creatures dragged what was left of him into the shadows. The two guards had had enough. They fired a few shots, killing one or two of the creatures, and ran for their lives with a pack of red-eyed demons on their heels.

Trout rallied Gamay and the others and led them out into the open, stepping past the twitching bodies to the Mercedes. He got behind the wheel and threw the shift into reverse, but the vehicle was hung up on the wreckage of the guardhouse. He instructed the scientists to push and pull, and after a lot of grunts, the wheels were clear and they all piled into the convertible.

Trout practically stood on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward and smashed through the gates as if they didn't exist and barreled along the road that would take them to the sea, and what Trout hoped was freedom.