Текст книги "White Death"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

20

ABROAD SMILE CROSSED Austin's bronzed face as the taxi crunched onto the long gravel driveway in Fairfax, Virginia. Austin paid his fare from Duties Airport and sprinted up the steps of the Victorian boathouse, part of an old estate fronting on the Potomac River. He dropped his bags inside the door, swept his eye around the combination study-den and the familiar line from Robert Louis Stevenson came to mind.

Home is the sailor, home from sea.

Like Austin himself, his house was a study in contrasts. He was a man of action whose physical strength, courage and quickness made him a force to be reckoned with. Yet he possessed a cool intellect, and he often drew inspiration from the great minds of centuries past. His work often involved the latest in high-tech gadgets, but his respect for the past was crystallized in the brace of dueling pistols that hung over his fireplace. It was part of a collection of more than two hun– dred sets, to which he was always adding, despite the limitations of a government salary.

The dichotomy in his personality was reflected in the comfortable dark-wood Colonial furniture that contrasted with the plain white walls, like those in a New York art gallery, that were hung with con– temporary originals. His extensive bookshelves groaned under the weight of hundreds of books that included first editions of Joseph Conrad and Herman Melville, and well-worn volumes containing the writings of the great philosophers. While he could spend hours studying the works and wisdom of Plato and Kant, his extensive music library was heavy on progressive jazz. Curiously, there was lit– tle to indicate that he spent most of his working days on or under the sea, except for a primitive painting of a clipper ship and a few other sailing vessels, a photo of his catboat under full sail and a glass– encased model of his racing hydroplane.

Austin had lovingly converted the boathouse into a residence, doing much of the work himself. His assignments for NUMA, and before that for the CIA, took him all over the globe. But when his work was done, he could always return to his safe harbor, drop sail and throw the anchor over the side. All that was needed to make the nautical analogy complete, he reflected, was a ration of grog.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of dark rum and Jamaican ginger beer. The ice tinkled pleasantly in his glass as he threw the doors open to release the musty smell. He went out onto the deck, where he filled his lungs with the fresh river air and surveyed the slow-moving Potomac in the vanishing light. Nothing had changed. The river was as beautiful and serene as ever.

He stretched out in a wood-slatted Adirondack chair, lay back and stared at the sky as if the stars could tell him what was behind the events of the last few days. His misadventures in the Faroe Islands and in Copenhagen would have been the stuff of dreams if not for the itch on his chest where the knife wound was healing and the ten– der swelling under his hair where a club had connected with his nog– mn. He could draw a straight line from the sabotage of the SOS ship to the attack on a quiet Copenhagen street. The dark impulses that had inspired the sabotage of the SOS ship were obviously a means to an end. Simply put, someone wanted SOS out of the picture. When Austin had gotten nosey, he'd become a target, first in Skaalshavn and later in Copenhagen.

The situation could be summed up in a simple equation: When– ever someone got too close to a company called Oceanus, the results could be disastrous. His thoughts drifted back to the Faroe Islands fish farm and the thing in the fish tank that had scared the hell out of him. A miasma of pure evil seemed to hang over the Oceanus op– eration. What had Jorgensen said? Unholy. Then there was the Basque tycoon, Balthazar Aguirrez, and his Quixotic quest. What was that all about?

Austin went over the events of the past several days in his mind until he felt his eyelids drooping. He downed the last of his drink, climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the turret surmounting the mansard roof, and turned in. He slept soundly and was up and dressed early the next morning, refreshed by a night's sleep and stim– ulated by a pot of strong Kona coffee. He telephoned an old friend at the CIA to make sure he would be in, then called his NUMA of– fice to say he'd be late.

Unlike his colleague Dirk Pitt, who collected antique autos and relished driving them, Austin was indifferent when it came to ground transportation. Driving a sedan from the NUMA car pool, nondescript except for its turquoise color, he headed to Langley, along a route he knew well from his days with the CIA, and parked his car next to dozens of other government vehicles. Security at the sprawl– ing complex was tighter since 9/11.

Herinan Perez, whom he had called earlier, was waiting in the vis– itors' area. Perez was a slightly built man with an olive complexion and dark-brown eyes that matched his thinning hair. Perez helped speed the check-in process through security and led Austin through the labyrinth of corridors to an office uncluttered by a scrap of paper. The only objects on the desktop were a computer monitor, a tele– phone and a photo of an attractive woman and two cute children.

"Kurt, it's great to see you!" Perez said, motioning for Austin to sit down. "Thinking of jumping Sandecker's ship to come back into the Company? We'd love to have you. The cloak-and-dagger stuff you're so good at has become respectable at Langley once again."

"Admiral Sandecker might have something to say about that. But I'll have to admit that I still get misty-eyed when I think about the fun we had on our last job."

"The secret missile retrieval job we did off Gibraltar," Perez said with a boyish grin. "Oh boy, that was something."

"I was thinking about that on the drive over this morning. How long has it been?"

"Too damned long. You know something, Kurt, I still hear little flamenco dancers in my head whenever I drink Spanish wine." A dreamy look came into Perez's face. "By God, we had some good times, didn't we?"

Austin nodded in agreement. "The world has changed a lot since then."

Perez laughed in reply. "Not for you, old pal! Hell, I read about that amazing rescue you pulled off in the Faroe Islands. You haven't changed a bit, you old sea dog. Still the same swashbuckling Austin."

Austin groaned. "These days, for every minute swashing buckles, I spend an hour at my desk dealing with reports."

"I hear you! I could do without the paperwork, although I've got– ten to like my nine-to-five schedule since I became a father. Two kids, would you believe it? Being a desk jockey isn't all bad. You might want to try it."

"No, thanks. I'd rather have my eyeballs tattooed."

Perez laughed. "Well, you didn't come here to talk about the good ol' days. You said on the phone that you were looking for background info on Balthazar Aguirrez. What's your interest in him, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Not at all. I ran into Aguirrez in the Faroe Islands. He seemed like a fascinating character. I know he's a shipbuilding magnate, but I suspected there was more to him than meets the eye."

"You met him?"

"He was fishing. So was I."

"I should have known," Perez said. "Trouble attracts trouble."

"Why is he trouble?"

"What do you know about the Basque separatist movement?"

"It's been around a long time. Every so often, Basque terrorists blow up a public building or assassinate an innocent government of– ficial."

"That pretty much sums it up," Perez said. "There's been talk for decades of a separate Basque state that would straddle Spain and France. The most radical separatist group, ETA, started fighting for an autonomous Basque state in 1968. When Franco died in 1975, the new Spanish government gave the Basques more political power, but the ETA wants the whole enchilada. They've killed more than eight hundred people since taking up the cause. Anyone who is not on their side is an enemy."

"A familiar story around the world, unfortunately."

"The political wing of the separatist movement is the Batasuna party. Some people have compared it to Sinn Fein, the public face of the IRA. The Spanish government threw up its hands after more as– sassinations and the discovery of a big ETA weapons cache. Auton– omy wasn't working, so they banned Batasuna and started to crack down on the whole separatist movement."

"Where does Aguirrez fit in to this bloody little picture?"

"Your instincts were right about there being more to him than meets the eye. He has been a major backer of Batasuna. The gov– ernment has accused him of financing terrorism."

"I liked him. He didn't look like a terrorist," Austin said, recall– ing his benefactor's bluff and down-to-earth manners.

"Sure, and Joe Stalin looked like somebody's grandfather."

Austin remembered the yacht's tough-looking crew and the heavy– duty armament that the vessel carried. "So, are the charges true?"

"He freely admits to supporting Batasuna, but points out that it was a legitimate party when he gave them money. The government suspects he's still channeling money into the movement. They have no proof, and Aguirrez is too well-connected to bring into court with flimsy evidence."

"What's your take on the guy?"

"In all my years in Spain, I never met him, which was why I was surprised when you said you had. I think he's a moderate who'd like to see a peaceful separatist solution, but the ETA murders have un– dermined his cause. He's afraid the crackdown will rekindle the con– flict and endanger innocent citizens. He may be right."

"Sounds like he's walking a very thin tightrope."

"Some people say that the pressure's made him unhinged. He's been talking about a way to rally European public opinion in favor of a Basque nation. Did he give you any hint of what's on his mind ?" Perez narrowed his dark eyes. "Surely you didn't talk just about fishing."

"He struck me as very proud of his Basque heritage-his yacht is named the Nat/arm. He didn't say a word about politics. We talked mostly about archaeology. He's an amateur archaeologist with strong interest in his own ancestors."

"You make him sound like a contender for the nutty professor. Let

me give you a warning, old friend. The Spanish police would love to nail him to the wall. They have no direct proof linking him to ter– rorist acts, but when they do, you don't want to be in their way."

"I'll remember that. Thanks for the heads-up."

"Hell, Kurt, it's the least I could do for a former comrade-in– arms."

Before Perez had the chance to start reminiscing again, Austin glanced at his watch. "Got to get moving. Thanks for your time."

"Not at all. Let's get together for lunch sometime. We miss you here. The brass is still ticked off about Sandecker grabbing you for NUMA."

Austin rose from his chair. "Maybe we'll work on a joint opera– tion someday."

Perez smiled. "I'd like that," he said.

The Washington traffic had let up, and before long, Austin saw the sun gleaming on the green glass facade of the thirty-story NUMA building overlooking the Potomac. He groaned when he walked into his office. His efficient secretary had neatly piled the pink call-back slips in the center of his desk. In addition, he would have to dig him– self out of an avalanche of e-mail messages before he got down to preparing a report on Oceanus.

Ah, the exciting life of a swashbuckler! He scrolled through his e– mail, deleted half of it as nonessential and shuffled through his pink slips. There was a message from Paul and Gamay. They had gone to Canada to check into an Oceanus operation. Zavala had left a call on his answering machine saying he would be home that night in time for a hot date. Some things never change, Austin thought with a shake of his head. His handsome and charming partner was much in demand among Washington's female set. Austin sighed and began to tap away at his computer. He was wrapping up the first draft when the phone rang.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Austin. I was hoping I'd find you in your office."

Austin smiled at the sound of Them's voice. "I'm already pining for the high seas. Your flight home on the Concorde went well, I trust.

"Yes, but I don't know why I hurried back. My in-box is filled with depositions and briefs. But I didn't call to complain. I'd like to get to– gether with you."

"I'm halfway out the door. A walk maybe. Cocktails and dinner. Then, who knows?"

"We'll have to put the 'who knows?' on hold for now. This is busi– ness. Marcus wants to talk to you."

"I'm really starting to dislike your friend. He keeps getting in the way of what may be the love affair of the century."

"This is important, Kurt."

"Okay, I'll meet with him, with one condition. We make a date for tonight."

"It's a deal."

She gave Austin a time and place for the meeting. Them's charm notwithstanding, he had agreed to talk to Ryan because he had come to a dead end and thought he might learn something new. He hung up, leaned back in his swivel chair and laced his fingers behind his head. It was easy to bring his thoughts around to Oceanus. His chest ached when he raised his arm, and the pain made an effective mem– ory aid.

He wondered if the Trouts had turned up anything. They hadn't called since leaving their message. He tried to reach them on their cell phone and got no answer. He didn't worry. Paul and Gamay were fully capable of taking care of themselves. Next, he called Rudi Gunn, NUMA's assistant director, and set up a luncheon meeting. Rudi's famed analytical skills might help guide him through the dense thicket surrounding the mysterious corporation.

Gunn was bound to home in on Aguirrez when he read the report, questioning whether there was any link between Basque terrorism and Oceanus violence. Aguirrez had mentioned his ancestor, Diego. Austin pondered the Basque's obsession with his forebear and thought that Aguirrez might be on to something. From his own ex– perience, Austin knew that the past is always the key to the present. He needed someone who could guide him back five centuries. One person came to mind immediately. Austin picked up the phone and punched out a number.

21

THE WORLD-FAMOUS marine historian and gourmand, St. Julien Perlmutter, was in an agony of ecstasy. He sat outside a three-hundred-year-old Tuscan villa whose shaded terrace had a breathtaking view of rolling vineyards. Visible in the distance, dom– inating the Renaissance city of Florence, was the Duomo. The wide oak table before him groaned with Italian cuisine, from pungent sausage made locally, to a thick, rare beefsteak Florentine. There was so much wonderful food, and so many wonderful colors and fragrances, in fact, that he was having a hard time trying to decide where to start.

"Get a grip on yourself, old man," he muttered, stroking his gray beard as he stared at the spread. "Wouldn't do to starve to death amid all this plenty/'

At four hundred pounds, Perlmutter was in little danger of wast– ing away. Since arriving in Italy ten days before, he had eaten his way up the Italian boot on a promotional tour for an Italian-American food magazine. He had trudged through wineries, trattorias and smokehouses, posed for photo opportunities in refrigerator rooms full of hanging prosciutto, and delivered lectures on the history of food going back to the Etruscans. He had dined on sumptuous feasts everywhere he stopped. The sensory overload had brought him to his present impasse.

The cell phone in his suit pocket trilled. Grateful for the distrac– tion from his quandary, he flipped the phone open. "State your busi– ness in a concise and businesslike manner."

"You're a hard man to find, St. Julien."

The sky-blue eyes in the ruddy face danced with pleasure at the sound of the familiar voice ofKurt Austin.

"To the contrary, Kurt m'lad. I'm like Hansel and Gretel. Follow the food crumbs, and you'll find me nibbling at the gingerbread house."

"It was easier to follow the suggestion of your housekeeper. She told me you were in Italy. How's the tour going?"

Perlmutter patted his substantial stomach. "It's very fulfilling, to say the least. All goes well in the District of Columbia, I trust?"

"As far as I know. I just flew back from Copenhagen last night."

"Ah, the city ofHans Christian Andersen and the Little Mermaid. I remember when I was there some years ago, there was this restau– rant I dined at-"

Austin cut Perlmutter off before he launched into a course-by– course account of his meal. "I'd love to hear about it. But right now, I need your historical expertise."

"Always willing to talk about food or history. Fire away." Perl– mutter was often asked to lend his expertise to NUMA queries.

"Have you ever come across a Basque mariner by the name of Diego Aguirrez? Fifteenth or sixteenth century."

Perlmutter dug into his encyclopedic mind. "Ah yes, something to do with the Song of Roland, the epic French poem."

"Chanson de Roland? I struggled through that as part of a high school French course."

"Then you know the legend. Roland was the nephew of the em– peror Charlemagne. He held off the Saracens at Roncesvalles with the help of his magic sword, Durendal. As he was dying, Roland beat his sword against a rock to keep it out of the hands of his enemies, but it wouldn't break. He blew his horn to summon help. Charle– magne, hearing it, came with his armies, but it was too late. Roland was dead. Through the centuries, Roland became a Basque hero, a symbol of their stubborn character."

"How do we get from Roland to Aguirrez?"

"I recall a reference to the Aguirrez family in an eighteenth cen– tury treatise on pre-Columbian voyages to the Americas. Aguirrez was said to have made many fishing trips to North American waters decades before Columbus's voyage. Unfortunately, he ran afoul of the Spanish Inquisition. There were unverified reports he had been en– trusted with the Roland relics."

"From what you say, the Roland story was not just a legend. The sword and the horn actually existed."

"The Inquisition apparently thought so. They feared the relics could be used to rally the Basques."

"What happened to Aguirrez and the relics?" "They both disappeared. There is no record of a shipwreck that I can recall. May I ask what prompts your interest in the subject?" "I met a descendant of Diego Aguirrez. He's retracing the voyage

of his long-lost ancestor, but he never said anything about sacred relics."

"I'm not surprised. Basque separatists are still setting off bombs in Spain. Lord knows what would happen if they got their hands on po– tent symbols like this."

"Do you remember anything else about Aguirrez?" "Not off the top of my head. I'll dig around in my books when I aet home." Perlmutter owned one of the world's finest marine li– braries. "I'll be back in Georgetown in a few days, after a stop-off in Milan."

"You've been a great help as usual. We'll talk again. Buon ap– petito."

"Grazier Perlmutter said, clicking off his phone. He turned his

attention back to the table. He was about to dig in to a plate of marinated artichoke hearts when his host, who owned the villa and the surrounding vineyards, came in with the bottle of wine he had gone for.

Shock registered on the man's face. "You're not touching your food. Are you ill?"

"Oh no, Signor Nocci. I was distracted by a telephone call re– garding a question of a historical nature."

The silver-haired Italian nodded. "Perhaps a taste of the chingali, the wild boar, will help your memory. The sauce was made from truffles found in my woods."

"A splendid suggestion, my friend." With the dam breached, Perl– mutter dug into the food with his usual gusto. Nocci politely held his curiosity at bay while his guest devoured the repast. But when Perl– mutter dabbed his small mouth and set his napkin aside, Nocci said, I am an amateur historian. It is impossible not to be when one lives in a country surrounded by the remnants of countless civilizations. Perhaps I can help you with your question."

Perlmutter poured himself another glass of 1997 Chianti and re– counted his conversation with Austin. The Italian cocked his head.

"I know nothing about this Basque, but your story brings to mind something I came across while doing some research in the Biblioteca Laurenziana.f)

"I visited the Laurentian Library many years ago. I was fascinated by the manuscripts."

"More than ten thousand masterpieces," Nocci said, nodding his head. "As you know, the library was founded by the Medici family to house their priceless collection of papers. I have been writing a paper on Lorenzo the Magnificent which I hope to publish some day, although I doubt if anyone will read it."

"Be assured, / shall read it," Perlmutter said grandly. "Then it will have been worth my labor," Nocci said. "Anyway, one of the hazards of research is the temptation to wander away from the highway, and while I was at the library, I traveled a side road that led to the Medici Pope Leo X. With the death of King Ferdinand in 1516, his seventeen-year-old successor, Charles V, encountered pres– sure to restrict the power of the Inquisition. In the great humanist tradition of the Medici family, Leo favored curtailing the Inquisitors. But Charles's advisors persuaded the young king that the Inquisition was essential to maintain his rule, and the persecution continued an– other three hundred years."

"A sad chapter in human history. It's comforting to know that

Aguirrez had the courage to speak out, but the dark forces are strong."

"And none was darker than a Spaniard named Martinez. He sent a letter to the king urging him to support the Inquisition and expand its powers. As far as I can determine, the letter was forwarded to Leo for his comment and came to the library with the Pope's other pa– pers." He shook his head. "It is the fanatical raving of a monster. Martinez hated the Basques, wanted them wiped from the face of the earth. I remember there was a mention of Roland, which I recall thinking was unusual in this context."

"What was the nature of this reference?"

Nocci heaved a great sigh and tapped his head with his forefinger. "I can't remember. One of the consequences of growing old."

"Perhaps you'll remember after more wine."

"I trust the wine more than my memory," Nocci said, with a smile. "The assistant curator at the library is a friend of mine. Please relax, and I will make a telephone call." He was back in a few minutes. "She says she would be happy to produce the letter I mentioned for us any time we want to look at it."

Perlmutter pushed his great bulk back from the table and rose to his feet. "I think perhaps a little exercise would do me some good."

The trip to Florence took less than fifteen minutes. Nocci usually drove a Fiat, but in expectation ofPerlmutter's visit, he had leased a Mercedes, which more comfortably accommodated his guest's wide girth. They parked near the leather and souvenir stalls that abounded in the Piazza San Lorenzo and went through an entrance to the left of the Medici family's old parish chapel.

Passing into the quiet cloisters, they left the bustle of commerce be– hind them and climbed the Michelangelo stairs into the reading room. The sturdy frame that supported Perlmutter's large figure al– lowed more agility than would have seemed possible under the laws of gravity. Still, he was puffing from the exertion of climbing the staircase and gladly agreed when Nocci said that he would fetch his friend. Perlmutter strolled past the rows of carved straight-backed benches, basking in the light that was filtering through the high win– dows as he breathed in the musty odor of antiquity.

Nocci returned after a minute with a handsome middle-aged Woman, whom he introduced as Mara Maggi, the assistant curator.

She had the reddish-blond hair and fair Florentine complexion that showed up so often in Botticelli paintings.

Perlmutter shook her hand. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Signora Maggi."

She greeted Perlmutter with a radiant smile. "Not at all. It is a pleasure to open our collection to someone of such repute. Please come with me. The letter you wish to see is in my office."

She led the way to a space whose window overlooked the cloister garden and settled Perlmutter in a small anteroom that had a spare desk and a couple of chairs. Several pages of wrinkled parchment lay in an open vellum-bound wooden box. She left the two men alone and said to call if they needed any help.

Nocci gingerly lifted the first parchment page from the folder and held it by the edges. "My Spanish is not too bad. If you'll allow me…

Perlmutter nodded and Nocci began to read. As he listened, Perl– mutter decided that he had seldom heard writing that dripped with so much venom and bloodthirsty hatred. The diatribe was a litany of charges directed at the Basques-witchcraft and Satanism among them. Even the uniqueness of their language was used in evidence. Martinez was obviously a madman. But behind his ravings was a clever political message to the young Medici king: To restrict the In– quisition would diminish the power of the throne.

"Ah," Nocci said, adjusting his reading glasses, "here is the pas– sage I was telling you about. Martinez writes:

But it is their tendency to rebellion I fear the most. They are at– tached to relics. They have the Sword, and the Horn, to which they attribute great powers. It gives them the power to rebel. Which will threaten the authority of the church and of your kingdom, my lord.

There is one among them, a man called Aguirrez, who is at the heart of this sedition. I have vowed to pursue him to the ends of the earth, to reclaim these relics. Sire, if our Sacred Mission is not al– lowed to continue its work until heresy is uprooted from the land, I fear the call of Roland's horn will summon our enemies to battle and that his Blade will lay waste to all we hold dear."

"Interesting," Perlmutter said, knitting his brow. "First of all, he seems to be saying that the relics are real. And second, that this fel– low Aguirrez has them in his possession. This certainly backs up the legendary accounts of Roland's fall."

Signora Maggi poked her head in the door and asked if they needed anything. Nocci thanked her and said, "This is a fascinating document. Do you have any more papers authored by this man Mar– tmez.

"I'm very sorry, but there is nothing I can think of."

Perlmutter tented his fingers and said, "Martinez comes across in his writings as a man of great ego. I would be surprised if he did not keep a journal of his day-to-day activities. It would be wonderful if such a book existed and we could get our hands on it. Perhaps at the state archives in Seville."

Signora Maggi was only half-listening. She was reading a sheet of paper that had been tucked into the box with the other records. "This is a list of all the manuscripts in this box. Apparently, one of the doc– uments was taken from this file by a previous curator and sent on to the Venice State Archives."

"What sort of document?" Perlmutter asked.

"It is described here as an 'Exoneration of a Man of the Sea,' writ– ten by an Englishman, Captain Richard Blackthorne. It was sup– posed to be returned, but there are more than ninety kilometers of archives covering a thousand years of history, so sometimes things fall through the cracks, as you Americans say."

"I'd love to read Blackthorne's account," Perlmutter said. "I'm due in Milan tomorrow, but perhaps I can divert to Venice."

"Perhaps it won't be necessary." She took the file into her office, and they could hear the soft clicking of a computer keyboard. She reap– peared after a moment. "I have contacted the Venice State Archives and asked for a virtual search of the records. Once the document is found, it can be copied and transmitted through the Internet."

"Well done!" Perlmutter said. "And my heartfelt thanks."

Signora Maggi kissed Perlmutter on both fleshy cheeks, and be– fore long he and Nocci were driving through the suburbs of Flo– rence. Exhausted by the activities of the day, Perlmutter took a nap and awoke just in time for dinner. He and Nocci dined on the ter– race. He had regained his gustatory equilibrium and had no trouble downing his veal and pasta dishes. After finishing up with a spinach salad and a simple doici of fresh fruit, they watched the sun go down, silently sipping on glasses oflimoncello.

The phone rang and Nocci went to answer it, while Perlmutter sat in the dark, savoring the smell of earth and grapevines, carried to his tulip nose by a light evening breeze. Nocci appeared a few minutes later and summoned Perlmutter into a small state-of-the-art com– puter room.

Noting his guest's upraised eyebrow, Nocci said, "Even a business as small as mine must use the latest in communications in order to survive in the global market. That was Signora Maggi," he said, sit– ting down in front of the monitor. "She apologizes for the delay, but the document you requested had to be retrieved from the Museo Storico Navale, the naval museum, where it had been languishing. Here," he said, and rose to give up his seat.

The sturdy wooden chair creaked in protest when Perlmutter set– tied in. He scanned the title page, on which the author declared the iournal to be "an account of an unwilling mercenary in the service of the Spanish Inquisition."

Perlmutter leaned forward, stared into the screen and began to read the words that had been written five centuries before.