Текст книги "Lost City"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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"He certainly fits the menacing description," Gamay said.

"He was a lot friendlier than I expected," Trout said. "You even had the dog smiling. What did you say?"

"I told them that you were an idiot for getting us lost."

"Oh," Trout said. "And what did baldy say?"

"He said he would be glad to show me the way. I think he was flirting with me."

Trout gave her a sidelong glance. "This is the second time you've used your feminine charms. First with Bert, then on Bullet Head and his mutt."

"All's fair in love and war."

"It's not the war I'm worried about. Every Frenchman we meet seems to have bedroom eyes."

"Oh, shush. I asked him if we could drive around and look at the grapes. He said that was all right, but to stay away from the fence."

Trout turned off at the first dirt road and they bumped along through acre after acre of vineyards. After a few minutes, they pulled over and got out of the car near a crew of grape pickers who were taking a cigarette break by the roadside. There were about a dozen dark-skinned workers talking to a man who seemed to be in charge. Gamay introduced themselves as American wine buyers. The man frowned when she explained that Marcel had given them permission to drive through the vineyards.

"Oh, that one," the man said with a frown. He said his name was Guy Marchand and he was the foreman of the work crew.

"They are guest workers from Senegal," he said. "They work very hard, so I go easy on them."

"We stopped at the bistro and talked to Bertrand," Gamay said. "He told us the wine produced here is wonderful."

"Oui. C'est vrai. Come, I'll show you the vines."

He waved the grape pickers back to work and led the Trouts down a line of vines. He was a voluble talker and enthusiastic about his work, and the Trouts had no need to do their wine snob act. They had only to nod their heads as Guy went on about soil, climate and grapes. He stopped at a vine trellis and plucked a few grapes, which

he handed to Gamay and Paul. He squeezed the grapes, sniffed them and tasted the juice with the tip of his tongue. They followed suit, clucking with admiration. They headed back to the road and saw that the workers were dumping grapes into the back of a truck.

"Where is the wine bottled?" Paul said.

"On the estate itself," Guy said. "Monsieur Emil wants to make sure every bottle is accounted for."

"Who is Monsieur Emil?" Gamay said.

"Emil Fauchard is the owner of these vineyards."

"Do you think it would be possible to meet Monsieur Fauchard?" Gamay said.

"No, he keeps to himself."

"So you never see him?"

"Oh yes, we see him," Marchand said. He rolled his eyes and pointed toward the sky.

Both Trouts looked up. "I don't understand," Gamay said.

"He flies over in his little red plane to keep watch."

Guy went on to explain that Emil personally dusted the crops. He told them that Emil had once dusted one of the work crews with pesticides. Some workers became violently ill and had to be transported to the hospital. They were all illegal immigrants, so didn't complain, but Marchand threatened to quit and the workers were given paltry gifts of money in compensation. He'd been told the dusting was an accident, although it was clear from the tone of his voice that he thought Emil had done it on purpose. But the Fauchards had paid him well and he didn't complain.

While Marchand talked, the workers finished loading the truck. Paul's eyes followed the truck as it trundled along the dirt road. After going about a quarter of a mile, it took a left-hand turn and headed toward a gate in the electrified fence. As a fisherman, Paul had developed a keen eye for detail and he could see a couple of guards standing in front of the gate. He watched the truck slow down, then it was waved through and the gate closed behind it.

Paul tapped Gamay's shoulder and said, "I think it's time to go."

They thanked Marchand, got in their car and headed back to the main road that would take them out of the vineyards.

"Interesting conversation," Gamay said. "Emil sounds just as lovely as Kurt described him." Paul only grunted in return. Gamay was used to Paul's sometimes taciturn nature, a trait he had inherited from his New England forebears, but detected something deeper in his monosyllabic reply. "Is there anything wrong?"

"I'm fine. The story about the 'accidental' dusting got me thinking again about all the misery Emil and his family have caused. They're responsible for the death of Dr. MacLean and his scientific colleagues, and that Englishman, Cavendish. Who knows how many more they've killed through the years?"

Gamay nodded. "I can't get those poor mutants out of my mind. They've had to endure a living death."

Paul whacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "It makes me want to punch someone in the nose."

Gamay was surprised at the uncharacteristic outburst. She arched an eyebrow. "We'll have to figure out a way to get past that fence and guards before we do any nose punching."

"That may be sooner than you think," Paul said with a smile, and he began to describe his plan.

SEBASTIAN SEARCHED Austin with a rough hand, relieving him of his gun, and then ordered him to move toward the stairs. They climbed the stairway and went along the Y-shaped passageway and up the wooden ladder to the ice cavern. A loud hissing came from the cavern and a steam cloud obscured its opening. Austin closed his eyes against the hot swirling steam and when he opened them he saw a silhouette in the mist.

Sebastian called out to the figure. Emil Fauchard materialized from the steam cloud like a magician making his appearance onstage. When he saw Austin, his lips contorted in rage and his pale features writhed into a Greek mask of fury. Wrath boiled within him like hot oil and he seemed barely able to contain himself. Then his mouth softened into a mirthless smile that was even worse. He closed a nozzle valve on the hose he was holding and the steam dissipated. "Hello, Austin," he said in a knife-edged voice. "Sebastian and I hoped we'd meet again after you left our costume party without saying good-bye. But I must admit I expected you to go to the chateau to rescue your lady friend."

"I couldn't resist your warm snakelike personality," Austin said, his voice cool. "And I never did thank you for the loan of your plane. Why did you kill Lessard?"

"Who?"

"The plant manager."

"He had outlived his usefulness as soon as he drained the tunnels. I let him live until the last moment, letting him think he could stop the turbine and bring in outside help." Fauchard laughed at the memory.

Austin smiled as if he appreciated Fauchard's evil humor. He had to use all the self-discipline at his command to resist the fatal urge to tear the Frenchman's head off. He bided his time, knowing that he was in no position to take revenge.

"I saw your plane on the lake," Austin said. "It's a little cold for scuba diving."

"Your concern is appreciated. The Morane-Saulnier was exactly where you said it would be."

Austin glanced around the cavern. "You went through a great deal of trouble to flood this place," Austin said. "Why drain it again?"

The smile dissolved into a frown. "At the time, we wanted to keep Jules locked away from the prying eyes of the world."

"What changed your mind?"

"My mother wanted Jules's body back."

"I was unaware that the Fauchard family was so sentimental about its kinfolk."

"There's a lot about us you don't know."

"Glad I could make it to his coming-out party. How is the old boy?"

"See for yourself," Emil said, and stepped aside.

A section of wall had been melted and chipped away to create a blue grotto. Jules Fauchard lay on the raised platform like a human sacrifice to the god of the glacier. The body was on its side, curled up in a fetal position. Jules was still wearing his heavy leather flying

coat and gloves, and his black boots were as shiny as if they had just been polished. He wore a parachute harness, but the actual parachute had been ripped off by powerful glacial forces. Although the corpse had been locked in the ice for nearly a century, the cold had kept it well preserved. The skin on the face and hands had a burnished copper look and the heavy handlebar mustache was coated with frost.

The hawk nose and firm jaw on the frozen face matched the features of the man in the Fauchard family gallery. Austin was especially interested in the hole that had punctured the fur-trimmed leather aviator's cap.

"Nice of your sentimental family to give Jules a going-away present," Austin said.

"What are you talking about?"

Austin gestured toward the hole. "The bullet in his head."

Emil sneered. "Jules was on his way to see the pope's emissary when he was shot out of the sky," Emil said. "He carried documents that would prove our family's complicity in starting the Great War. He also wanted to offer the world a scientific discovery that would be a boon to all mankind. He hoped to avert war with his actions."

"Laudable and unusual goals for a Fauchard," Austin said.

"He was a fool. This is where his altruism landed him."

"What happened to the documents he carried with him?"

"They were useless, ruined by water."

"Then it was all a big waste of time."

"Not at all. Look. You are here. And you will wish that you were chained in the chateau catacombs when I am through." Emil pointed to the ragged edge of ice that framed the opening to the grotto. "See? The ice is already re-forming. In a few hours, the tomb will again be resealed. And this time you will be inside, keeping Jules company."

Austin's mind was racing.

Where the hell was Zavala?

"I thought your mother wanted the body."

"What do / care about the body? My mother won't always be in power. I intend to lead the Fauchards to their greatest achievements. Enough stalling. I'm not going to indulge your pathetic effort to forestall the inevitable, Austin. You stole my airplane and treated it shabbily, and have caused me a great deal of trouble. Get over there next to Jules."

Austin stayed where he was. "Your family didn't give a rat's ass about being blamed for the war. It was an open secret that you and the other arms merchants wanted the bullets to fly. It was something bigger than any war. Jules was carrying the formula for eternal youth."

A startled expression flashed across Emil's face. "What do you know?"

"I know that the Fauchards will destroy anyone who stands in the way of their goal of living forever." He glanced at. the frozen corpse of Jules. "Even a family member proved to be expendable when it came to the fountain of youth."

Emil studied Austin's face. "You're an intelligent man, Austin. Wouldn't you admit that the secret of eternal life is worth killing for?"

"Yes," Austin said with a wolfish grin. "If you're the one being killed."

"Your civilized veneer is wearing thin," Emil said with a chuckle. "Think of the infinite possibilities. An elite group of immortals imbued with the wisdom of ages could rule the world. We'd be like gods to the life-deprived."

Austin glanced at Emil's henchman. "What about Sebastian over there? Does he fit in with your group of elites? Or will he join the rest of the 'life-deprived," as you call them?"

The question caught Emil by surprise. "Of course," he said after a moment. "Sebastian's loyalty will earn him a place in my pantheon. Will you join me, old friend?"

The hulking man opened his mouth to reply but said nothing. He had caught the hesitation in Emil's voice and there was confusion in his eyes.

Austin twisted the verbal knife. "Don't count on living forever, Sebastian. Emil's mother wants you out of the picture."

"He's lying," Emil said.

"Why would I lie? Your boss here intends to kill me, no matter what I say. Madame Fauchard told me at the masquerade ball that she had ordered Emil to get rid of you. We both know Emil always does what his mother tells him to do."

A doubtful expression came to the bland face. Emil saw himself losing control of the situation.

"Shoot him in the arms and legs," he barked. "Make sure you don't kill him. I want him to beg for death."

Sebastian stood there, unmoving. "Not yet," he said. "I want to hear more."

Emil uttered a curse and snatched the gun from Sebastian's hand. He aimed at Austin's knee.

"You'll soon find that your life is all too long."

Austin's ploy to turn Sebastian against Emil had bought him a little time, but it had failed, as he knew it would in the end. The master-and-servant bond between the two men was too strong to be dissolved by a few doubts. He braced himself for the shattering pain. But instead of a gunshot, he heard a sharp hissing sound from the passageway outside the ice cave. Then a hot cloud of steam surged into the chamber.

Emil had turned his head in reflex toward the source of the noise. Austin lunged forward in a low boxing stance and drove his right fist

into Fauchard's midsection. Fauchard let out an explosion of air and his legs buckled. The gun flew from his fingers.

Sebastian saw his master under attack, and he tried to grab Austin by the neck. Instead of trying to elude Sebastian, Austin bulled right at him, using his palm to straight-arm the big man under the chin. As Sebastian reeled from the attack, Austin shouldered him aside and then sprinted through the blinding steam.

He heard Zavala calling. "Kurt, over here!"

Zavala stood in the passageway holding a cutoff section of hose that was spewing hot water onto the walls to create the cloud that rolled into the ice cavern. Zavala dropped the hose, grabbed Austin and led him through the steam cloud. They could hear Emil shouting in incoherent rage.

Gunfire raked the passageway. Austin and Zavala were racing down the stairs and the bullets went high. Hearing the gunfire, the rest of Fauchard's men emerged from the lab trailer. They saw Austin and Zavala and gave chase. As they made their way into the tunnel, Zavala got off two quick shots to give their pursuers something to think about. He was still limping, but managed a loping run, and they made it back to the sluice gate Sebastian had blown off. They plunged through the opening a second ahead of a hail of bullets.

Austin searched his pockets for the tunnel map. It was nowhere to be found. He remembered he had left it in the Citroen. They must get back to Fifi. He pictured the system in his mind. The flow in the system could be manipulated in the same way electricity pulses through the grid on a circuit board.

They headed back to the Citroen, only to halt at the sound of voices echoing along the passageway ahead. Austin led the way into another tunnel and he and Zavala were able to make their way in roundabout fashion back to their intended route. The detour cost them precious minutes that allowed Fauchard to organize the chase,

and Austin wasn't surprised when they heard Emil's voice behind them eerily exhorting his men on.

Austin and Zavala had been proceeding with haste tempered with caution, but they picked up the pace, following a bewildering course of lefts and rights. Austin was acting mostly on gut instinct, trusting the internal compass that he carried around in his head and using a crude form of land-based dead reckoning.

Despite Austin's fine-tuned sense of direction, the detours took their toll. He lost his bearings completely. Emil's voice was getting closer. Austin was as close to despair as he had ever been when they came to an intersection of four tunnels. Austin's coral-blue eyes probed the gloom.

"This looks familiar," Zavala said.

"We're near the mid station control booth," Austin said.

They entered the right-hand tunnel that would take them back to Fifi, only to stop after taking a few steps. Rough male voices could be heard coming in their direction. They ran back to the intersection and tried going straight, but a sluice gate barred their way. They came back to the intersection. The distant sound of booted footfalls was coming from the passageway at the left.

"We're surrounded," Zavala said.

A desperate plan was hatching in Austin's brain. He turned into the left-hand tunnel.

Zavala held back. "Hold on, Kurt. Fauchard's goons are coming that way, too."

"Trust me," Austin said. "But do it fast. We don't have a second to spare."

Zavala shrugged and sprinted into the dimly lit passageway a step behind Austin. He mumbled to himself in Spanish as they splashed through the puddle-covered floor. He had worked with Austin on many missions since joining the NUMA Special Assignments Team. Zavala had developed an abiding faith in Austin's judgment. There were times, however, like the present, when Austin's behavior seemed completely irrational, and that confidence was put to the test.

Zavala pictured them bumping into Fauchard's thugs in a deadly version of a Keystone Kops silent movie. But they reached the control booth unimpeded and scrambled up the ladder onto the catwalk. Fauchard's men materialized in the dim tunnel and gave out with a hoarse cry of triumph at having brought their game to roost. They unleashed a blistering attack on the booth.

Bullets pinged and ricocheted off the metal catwalk, the tunnel walls amplifying the racket to D-day proportions. Austin dove into the control booth, pulled Zavala in behind him and slammed the door shut. The rest of Fauchard's men heard the gunfire, came running and joined in the turkey shoot. They peppered the booth with hundreds of rounds. The windows disintegrated and the sustained barrage of lead threatened to punch through the steel walls.

Austin crawled across the shards of glass littering the floor, got up on his knees and, keeping his head low, ran his hands onto the control panel keyboard. A diagram of the tunnel system appeared on the screen. The racket of bullets slamming into the booth was deafening and Austin tried to stay focused. He typed out several commands and was gratified when he saw the colors change on the diagram.

Zavala started to rise, hoping to get off a shot or two, but Austin pulled him down.

"You'll get your head shot off," he yelled over the sound of gunfire.

"Better than getting my ass shot off," Zavala said.

"Wait," Austin said.

"Wait? For what}"

"Gravity."

Zavala's reply was drowned out by a new volley. Then the gunfire stopped abruptly and they could hear Emil's mocking voice.

"Austin! Are you and your friend enjoying the view?"

Austin put his finger to his lips.

When Austin didn't answer, Emil taunted, "Don't tell me you're shy. I want you to listen to the plans my mother has for your lady friend. She's going to give her a face-lift. You won't recognize her when she's through with the transformation."

Austin had had enough of Fauchard. He signaled for Zavala to hand over his gun and moved closer to the control booth wall. Disregarding his own advice, he squeezed the trigger until it was a feather's touch away, then he popped up like a hand puppet, fired once and ducked down. He had honed in on Fauchard's voice, but his aim was off. Fauchard and his men scattered in search of cover. Once they saw that there was no follow-up attack, they again sprayed the booth with lead.

"You really showed them that time," "Zavala yelled over the racket. "Emil was starting to irk me." "Did you get him?"

"Emil? Unfortunately, no. I missed Sebastian, too. But I nailed the guy standing next to him."

"That is unfortunate," Zavala said, raising his voice a few decibels. "Brilliant strategy, though. Maybe they'll run out of bullets."

Bullets were starting to punch through the floor of the booth. Austin knew he had to stop the shooting and buy time. "Do you have a white hanky?" he asked Zavala.

"This is a funny time to be blowing your nose," Zavala said, ducking as a round ricocheted off the wall. He saw from Austin's face that he wasn't joking and said, "I've got my Mexican 'do-rag." " Zavala fished his multipurpose red bandanna out of his back pocket and handed it over.

"This will do," Austin said, tying the bandanna to the gun barrel. He poked the impromptu flag out the door and waved it.

The gunfire again stopped. Emil's sharp-edged laughter echoed throughout the tunnel.

"What is that rag, Austin?" he said. "I'm no bull to be taunted by your antics."

"I didn't have a white flag," Austin shouted down.

"A white flag? Don't tell me you and your friend are prepared to come to terms with your fate?"

Austin cocked his ear, listening. He thought he heard a distant whispering, like the surf along the shore. But his ears were still ringing from the gunfire and he couldn't be sure.

"You misunderstood, Fauchard. I'm not ready to surrender."

"Then why are you waving that ridiculous piece of cloth?"

"I wanted to say good-bye before the freight train comes through."

"Have you gone mad, Austin?"

The whispering had become a low rumble.

Emil gave the order to start firing again.

Bullets whined and splattered around their heads in a nonstop crescendo. The concentrated gunfire was punching through the walls. In another few minutes, the booth would beAno more protection than the slice of Swiss cheese that it was starting to resemble.

Then the firing stopped abruptly.

The gunmen had felt the vibration. With the guns silent, they, too, had picked up the rumble of distant thunder.

Austin got to his feet and stepped out onto the catwalk. Emil had a puzzled look on his face. He looked up, saw Austin staring down at him and knew he had been bested.

"You've won for now, Austin," he yelled up, shaking his fist in defiance, "but you haven't heard the last from the Fauchards."

Austin grinned, stepped back into the booth, grabbed onto one of the metal legs supporting the console table and told Zavala to do the same.

Emil shouted one last oath, and then he turned and he and his gang of thugs ran for their lives. Sebastian lurched after the others.

It was too late.

Seconds later, the wave hit Fauchard and his men with an explosion of blue water that swept them away like a giant broom. Heads bobbed for an instant in the cold foam, arms flailed ineffectually. Sebastian's face was pale against the dark water. Then he was gone along with Emil and his men.

Unlike their previous experience, when Austin and Zavala stayed high and dry inside the undamaged watertight booth, this time the cascading water flowed in through the broken windows, flooded the control room and tried to pull Austin and Zavala from their anchor. They hung on with every ounce of strength.

Just when their lungs were ready to burst, the main force of the wave spent itself and the water began to subside.

They stood on shaky legs and peered through the jagged-edged framework, which was all that was left of the window.

Zavala looked down on the river flowing under their feet, amazement on his dark features. "How did you know that high tide was coming?"

"I opened and closed a few sluice gates in another part of the system and diverted water this way."

Zavala grinned and said, "I hope that Fauchard and his pals are all washed up."

"My guess is that they're feeling a bit flushed by now," Austin said. Miraculously, the control monitor was in a secure housing and had escaped damage. Austin punched in some keyboard commands. The water level dropped until the rushing river became a narrow stream. Both men were shivering in their wet clothes by then. They had to get out of the tunnels to someplace dry and warm before hypothermia set in. They climbed down the ladder. This time, no one tried to stop them.

They plodded through the tunnels with no idea of where they were going. Their teeth had started to chatter from the cold. The batteries in their flashlights were getting low, but they kept on because

they had no alternative. Just when they were about to give up all hope, they saw an object ahead.

Zavala yelled with joy. "Fifi!"

The Citroen had been picked up by the wave and deposited sideways in the tunnel. It was covered with mud and the paint was scraped off in a dozen places where it must have banged against the walls. Austin opened the door. The map was floating in a few inches of water on the floor. The key was still in the ignition. He tried to start the car but the engine wouldn't turn over.

Zavala fiddled around in the hood and told Austin to try it again.

This time the motor started.

Zavala got in and said, "Loose battery cable."

It took a half hour of driving through the tunnel grid before they figured out where they were, then another half hour to find their way back through the system. The car was running on gas vapors when they saw gray daylight ahead, and moments later they drove out of the mountain.

"What next?" Zavala said.

Austin didn't even have to think about it. "Chateau Fauchard."

WHEN SKYE WAS a girl her father had taken her to the Cathedrale de Notre Dame and she had seen her first gargoyle. The grotesque face leering down from the ramparts looked like a monster from her worst nightmares. She had calmed down after her father explained that gargoyles were nothing more than rain spouts Skye had wondered why such talented sculptors could not have fashioned things of beauty, but she had put aside her childhood fears. Now, as she blinked her eyes open, the gargoyle of her restless dreams was back. Even worse, it was talking to her.

"Welcome back, mademoiselle," said the cruel mouth only inches away. "We have missed you."

The face belonged to Marcel, the bullet-headed man in charge of the private army at Chateau Fauchard. He spoke again.

"I'll be back in fifteen minutes," he said. "Do not keep me waiting."

She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea swept through her body. When she looked again, he was gone.

Skye glanced around and saw that she was in the chamber where she'd changed into the cat costume for the Fauchard masquerade ball. She recalled walking up to her apartment building. She dug deeper into her recollection and remembered the lost American couple, the bee sting on her backside and the slide into oblivion.

Dear God, she had been fydnapped.

She sat up in the bed and swung her legs over the side. There was a brassy taste in her mouth, probably the remnant of the chemical that had been injected into her veins to render her unconscious. She took a deep breath and stood up. The room began to swirl around her. She staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the sink.

Skye gazed at her reflection, hardly recognizing the face in the mirror. Her face was ghostly pale, her hair lank and straggly. She felt better after she had rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. She brushed her hair back with her fingers and patted the wrinkles out of her clothes as best she could.

She was ready a few minutes later when Marcel opened the door without knocking and beckoned for her to follow. They walked down the long carpeted corridors, eventually passing through the gauntlet of faces lining the walls of the portrait gallery. She looked for the painting of Jules Fauchard, but it was gone, leaving only blank wall in its place. Then they were standing outside Madame Fauchard's office.

Marcel gave Skye an odd smile, and then he knocked gently and opened the door. He pushed Skye inside. Skye saw that she was not alone. A blond woman with her back to Skye sat at Madame Fauchard's desk, staring out the window. She swiveled around in the chair at the click of the door shutting and stared at Skye.

The woman was in her forties, with creamy skin set off by probing gray eyes. She parted her red, almost voluptuous lips. "Good afternoon, mademoiselle. We've awaited your return. You left in such a spectacular fashion."

Skye's mind reeled. She wondered if she were still feeling the aftereffects of the knockout drug.

"Sit," the woman said, pointing to a chair in front of the desk.

Skye obeyed, moving like a zombie.

The woman regarded Skye with amusement.

"What's wrong? You seem distracted."

Skye was more confused than distracted. The voice that came from the woman's mouth was that of Madame Fauchard. It had lost its cracked, old lady quality, but there was no mistaking the hard-edged words. Crazy thoughts ran through Skye's mind. Did Racine have a daughter? Maybe this was a clever ventriloquist.

Finally, she found her own voice.

"Is this some sort of trick?"

"No trick at all. What you see is what there is."

"Madame Fauchard?" The words came out falteringly.

"One and the same, my dear," she said with a wicked smile. "Only now I am young and you are old."

Skye was still skeptical. "You must give me the name of your plastic surgeon."

Heat came to the woman's eyes, but only for a moment. She rose from her chair and came around to the other side of the desk with silken movements. She leaned over, took Skye's hand and placed it on her cheek.

"Tell me if you still think this is the work of a surgeon."

The flesh was warm and firm, and the skin was creamy without a trace of wrinkles.

"Impossible," Skye said in a whisper.

Madame Fauchard let the hand drop, then stood upright and returned to her chair. She tented her long, slender fingers so that Skye could see that they were no longer gnarled.

"Don't worry," she said. "You're not going mad. I am the same person who invited you and Mr. Austin to my costume party. He's well, I trust."

"I don't know," Skye said, guardedly. "I haven't seen him in days. How "

"How did I turn from a cackling old crone into a young beauty?" she said, a dreamy look in her eyes. "A long, long story. It would not have been so long had it not been for Jules absconding with the helmet," she said, spitting out the name with bitterness. "We could have saved decades of research."

"I don't understand."

"You're the antique arms expert," Madame Fauchard said. "Tell me what you know about the helmet."

"It's very old. Five hundred years or possibly older. The steel was of extremely high quality. It may have been made with iron from a meteorite."

Madame Fauchard arched an eyebrow.

"Very good. The helmet was made with star metal and this strength saved the lives of more than one Fauchard in battle. It was melted and recast through the centuries and was passed down through the family to the true leaders of the Fauchards. It rightfully belonged to me, not my brother Jules."