Текст книги "White Death"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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"Ben agreed to escort me," Therri said. "Marcus thought Ben's memory might be jogged by something he saw." "Has it been?"

"Not yet," Therri said. "What about you? Have you learned any– thing?"

"Yes," he said with a tight smile. "I've learned that you don't lis– ten to warnings of possible danger."

"That's ancient history," Therri said, like someone trying to be patient with an annoying child. Austin took in the challenging gaze and decided he was wasting his breath trying to change her mind.

"I'm on my way outside to see the dogsled races," he said. "Would you like to join me?"

"Thank you," she said, hooking her arm in Nighthawk's. "We were headed that way ourselves."

A guide directed them outside. Traffic on Madison Drive had been stopped to allow spectators to cross to the National Mall. It was a beautiful night. Lit by floodlights, the red sandstone turrets of the Smithsonian Castle were clearly visible across the eight-hundred– foot width of greensward. Toward the Potomac, the plain white spike of the Washington Monument soared into the night sky.

A large section of open grass had been marked off with yellow po– lice tape and was brightly illuminated by portable lights. Inside the enclosure, orange pylons were arranged in a rectangle. Hundreds of reception guests in evening attire, and passersby attracted by the lights and crowd, ringed the perimeter. A few National Park Service uniforms could be seen. From the other side of the racecourse, where several trucks were lined up, came a sound like a kennel at feeding time. Then the excited yelps and barks were drowned out by a male voice on the public address system.

"Welcome to the Denizens of the Frozen North exhibition, ladies and gentlemen," the announcer said. "You're about to see the most exciting part of the show, the dogsled competition. This is more than a race. The contestants, from two different Inuit communities in Canada, will demonstrate the skills needed to survive in the Arctic. The hunter must speed to the kill and use his harpoon with unerr– ing accuracy. As you know, we don't have much snowfall in Wash– ington this time of year." He paused, to allow for the laughter. "So the racers will have wheels on their sleds instead "of runners. Enjoy the show!"

Figures milled around the trucks, then broke into two groups,

each pushing a sled toward an opening in the taped enclosure. The sleds, one bright blue, the other fire-engine red, were brought to the starting point and placed side by side. The wolflike sled dogs were taken from the kennel trailers and hooked into their harnesses.

Excited by the prospect of a run, the huskies grew more agitated. The barking reached a crescendo as the impatient dogs pulled against their harnesses. The nine-dog teams, with eight in pairs and one as leader, exerted an amazing amount of muscle power when harnessed together. Even with the brakes set and handlers holding on, the sleds inched forward.

Two men, the drivers obviously, detached themselves from the others and climbed onto their sleds. A second later, the starting gun went off. The drivers shouted commands, the dogs dug their paws in, and the sleds took off like twin rockets. The dogs immediately went into an all-out run. Unsure of the conditions on the grassy course, the drivers slowed slightly as they came into the first turn. There was some skidding, but the sleds came out of the turn side by side and stayed neck and neck into the second curve, successfully navigating it.

The sleds were moving at full tilt again as they raced toward the spot where Austin stood behind the yellow tape, next to Them and Ben. The drivers urged the dogs on with loud kissing sounds. In def– erence to the mild evening, the drivers were not dressed in hooded fur parkas, instead wearing skin pants tucked into their boots. Sweat glistened on their bare chests.

The sleds were modified tube steel rigs like those used to train dogs when there is no snow for the runners to glide upon. Steel mesh platforms about six feet long and more than a yard wide nestled be– tween four rubber airplane tires. The sleds were steered by a small wheel at the top of a vertical tube frame. The drivers stood with feet placed on narrow side extensions that flanked the main platform, bodies hunched over the steering posts to cut wind resistance and lower the center of gravity. As the sleds flashed by with whirring wheels, the faces of the drivers were only a blur.

The racers were still abreast as they came into the third turn. The red one was on the inside. Looking for a gain, the driver tried to cut the turn tightly. But the sled caught an edge, and the wheels on the other side lifted off the ground a few inches. The driver skillfully compensated with the weight of his body and a touch of the brake, and the wheels slammed down again. The blue-sled driver took ad– vantage of the lost gamble. He could have gone wide, but he finessed the turn with admirable skill and gained a quarter of a length in the straightaway.

The crowd was cheering madly, and it went wild when the blue sled increased the lead to half a length. Another few feet and the blue sled would be able to pull over in front of the red one, blocking the way and controlling the race. The blue driver kept glancing over his shoulder, looking for an opportunity. He got his chance in the fourth and last curve.

The leading sled, on the outside, came into the turn at a perfect speed and angle to put him completely ahead of the other racer. But the red sled suddenly veered to the right, and its front wheel caught the leader's rear-left tire. The blue sled fishtailed from the impact, and the driver fought to bring it under control. The dogs sensed the whiplash about to take place and tried to compensate by pulling harder, but the centrifugal forces acting on the light vehicle proved too potent.

The blue sled went up on two wheels and flipped. The driver went airborne, like a circus performer shot out of a cannon. He hit the grass hard, rolled several times and lay still. The dogs kept run– ning and dragged the sled on its side until they could pull it no far– ther. Then they began to fight among themselves. The handlers ducked under the yellow tape and rushed in to get the dogs under control, while others tended to the fallen driver.

The red-sled driver pushed ahead at full speed, although he had the race won, not slowing until he had passed over the finish line. The sled was still moving when he jumped off it and grabbed a harpoon from a barrel. Without pausing to aim, he sent the spear winging to– ward an archery target set up near the course. The spear hit the bull's– eye at dead center. Then he pulled a hatchet from his belt and hurled it at the target as well. Bull's-eye again.

The victorious driver raised his fists high in the air and let out a chilling cry of victory, then strutted around the perimeter of the race course, his wide mouth set in a grin, his face like a malevolent jack– o'-lantern. His arrogant posturing put to rest any doubts that the col– lision was an accident. A lone boo issued from the stunned crowd, then was joined by others, growing into an angry chorus as the spec– tators showed their disapproval of the winning tactics. Disgusted with the race, guests began to move back to the museum.

The driver gestured at the departing spectators as if daring some– one to step forward. His gaze swept the crowd-looking for anyone brave or foolish enough to take him on-when it fell on Austin. The dark eyes narrowed into slits. Austin tensed. Standing only a few feet away was the man who had slashed him and tossed a hand grenade into his boat at the Mermaid's Gate. He would have recog– nized the man from the hate burning in his feral eyes even without the vertical tattoo lines on the cheekbones and the mangled knot of flesh where Austin had bashed him in the nose.

The thick lips in the dark, wide face formed a silent word. Austin.

Austin was stunned that the man knew his name, but he hid his surprise.

Using his most mocking tone, he said, "Long time no see, Nanook. You owe me for the plastic surgery I did on your pretty face."

The driver stepped closer until they were a foot or so apart, sepa– rated only by the yellow tape. Austin could smell the man's fetid breath.

"The name is Umealiq/' he said. "I want you to call my name when you beg me for mercy."

"Don't blame you for being dissatisfied with your nose job," Austin said evenly. "You didn't give me a lot to work with. Pay me for the boat you blew up and we'll call it even."

"The only payment you will get is death,ff the man snarled. His thick fingers dropped down to his belt, and he began to slide the bone knife from its scabbard. Although most of the spectators had left, there were still knots of people hanging around. Austin sensed that there was no safety in numbers and the man would not hesitate to kill him, even in front of dozens of witnesses. He clenched his right fist, ready to send it crashing into the broken nose, where it would inflict the most damage and pain.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sudden movement. Ben Nighthawk had hurled himself at the driver. The Indian was too light and his tackling form too imperfect to do any damage. The driver grunted, and his squat body shuddered slightly from the im– pact, but he kept his footing and swatted Nighthawk aside with a mighty blow.

Again the hand groped for the knife, and he took a step forward, only to freeze at the sound of a commotion. The blue-sled driver was making his way across the Mall, accompanied by several angry han– dlers. Dirt and blood stained his face. Umealiq whirled to face the newcomers. They exchanged angry words, obviously arguing over the race tactics. With a quick burning glance back at Austin, the red– sled driver pushed his way through the others and made his way back to the trucks.

Therri was down on her knees, tending to Nighthawk. Austin went to her side and saw that the Indian's only injury was a bruise where he'd been struck under the eye. As they helped him to his feet, he spit the words out: "That was the man who killed my cousin."

"You're sure?" Therri said. Nighthawk nodded dumbly. His dazed eyes fixed on the figure walking across the Mall, and he stumbled forward. Austin saw where he was going and stepped in front of him, barring his path. "He and his pals will kill you."

I don t care.

"Now is not the time," Austin said, in a voice that said he wasn't yielding.

Nighthawk saw that his determination wasn't enough to get him past Austin's wide shoulders. He swore in his native language and stalked across the Mall toward the museum.

Therri said, "Thanks for stopping Ben. We should tell the po– lice."

"Not a bad idea. But it might be a problem." A group of men was striding onto the Mall from the direction of

the museum. In the lead was the tall figure of Dr. Barker. He hailed Austin like a long-lost buddy.

"Nice to see you again, Austin. I'm on my way out and stopped to say good-bye."

"Thanks, but I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh, but you are. Umealiq is waiting for you and your friend. You're about to learn why he is named after the stone-headed lance the Inuit use on seal hunts."

Barker pointed to where Scarface stood in the middle of the race– course. Then, escorted by two bodyguards, he strode off to where a limo awaited, leaving the rest of his men behind.

Others came running over from where the trucks were parked. Austin did a quick count and estimated that there were about twenty men in all. Not exactly great odds. Their prospects didn't get any bet– ter when a couple of men ran over to the portable lights that had il– luminated the racecourse and snapped them off.

The Mall had become a big and lonely place. The nearest police presence was a traffic cop on Madison Drive stopping cars so the guests could return to the museum. The remaining guests were mak– ing their way back to the reception, and the passersby had resumed their strolls. Austin's sharp eye followed the shadows that were mov– ing across the grass in a classic encircling maneuver.

He took Therri's arm and tried to guide her toward the museum, but Barker's men barred their way. It was a repeat of the scene in Copenhagen, but this time Austin had no trash-can lid to use as a shield and a weapon. He could see several strollers, and even a cou– ple of National Park Service people, walking through the Mall un– mindful of the unfolding drama, but decided against calling for help. Anyone he talked to would be put in immediate danger.

One light had been left on. Standing in the bull's-eye of illumina– tion, like an actor in the spotlight, was Umealiq. His hand was on his scabbard. His men were closing in from the sides and behind. Austin had no choice. He took Therri's hand, and they slowly began to walk toward what was certain death.

25

DESPITE THE AURA of death in the air, Austin maintained an uncanny serenity. He had developed the ability to shift his brain into what could best be described as a mental overdrive. While his synapses continued to crackle, an inner voice slowed his thought processes, calmly taking in details fed to it by the senses and formu– lating a plan of action.

He and Therri faced two possible fates. At a signal from their lead– er, the men pacing on both sides could carve them up with their hatch– ets. More likely, Austin judged, Scarface would do the job, as he himself had promised. Austin was working on a third option, al– though it wouldn't have been apparent to their escorts. He glanced fearfully around him, giving the impression of being consumed with panic and confusion, while mentally he mapped out an escape route and calculated the odds.

Therri squeezed his hand until his knuckles hurt. "Kurt, what should we do?" she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice.

The question gave Austin a sense of relief. It told him that, far from having given up hope, Therri was also looking for a way out of their predicament. Her determination suggested that she could call upon untapped reserves. She would need them, Austin thought. "Keep walking. Just think of it as a stroll in the park." Therri glanced sideways at their silent escorts. "Some stroll. Some park. I haven't had so much fun since our Copenhagen date."

The spark of humor was a good sign. They took a few more steps. Austin murmured, "When I say 'mush,' I want you to follow my lead."

"Did you say 'mush'?" "That's right. Stay with me. Climb up on my heels if you have to.

No matter where I go, stay close."

Therri nodded, and they continued to walk at a snail's pace. Austin and Therri had advanced close enough to Scarface to see the hard eyes glittering like black diamonds under the low-cut bangs. The others seemed in no hurry, probably trying to draw out the terror as long as possible. In their black coveralls, the men looked like mourn– ers at a wake. Austin saw them only as dangerous obstacles to be re– moved or eluded. The real focus of his attention lay off to the left. The red dogsled had been left unattended. The dogs sat or lay curled up on the grass, eyes half-closed, mouths open in a canine grin.

Austin took a deep breath. Timing would be everything.

Another step closer to the end of their lives.

Scarface anticipated their arrival. His hand dropped to the hilt of the bone knife in its scabbard, the cruel mouth widened in a smile, like someone licking his chops over a tender steak. He said something in an unintelligible language. It was only a few words, probably a gloating rernark, but it caught the attention of his men, who all looked in their leader's direction.

Austin gripped Them's hand. "Ready?" he whispered.

She squeezed back.

"Mush!

Austin sidestepped to his left, yanked Therri practically off her feet, and lunged toward a gap in the line of pickets. The guards saw them break out and tried to head them off, like defensive lineback– ers converging to stop a runner with the ball. They raced toward the closing gap. At the last moment, Austin changed direction. He shook offTherri's hand, and putting all the weight of his body behind his shoulder, smashed into the midsection of the guard to his left. The man let out a sound like a malfunctioning steam engine and doubled over.

The other guard charged in, hatchet in hand. Using the bounce from his first encounter, Austin came out of his crouch and slammed into the man with his other shoulder. The impact lifted the other man off his feet. The hatchet went flying onto the grass.

Therri was right behind him. A few more steps and they were at the sled. The dogs noticed their approach and perked their ears up. Austin grabbed the sled's upright framework and held it tight. He didn't want; the dog team to bolt off. Without being instructed, Therri rolled onto the steel-mesh platform, then sat up, legs extended forward, hands gripping the uprights in front of her. Austin kicked off the brake.

"Hike!" he snapped in a clear, commanding voice. The sled's regular driver probably used an Inuit command, but the team knew from his tone what Austin wanted. Mushers don't use the word "mush" to get dogs moving. The word is too soft. Austin was a man of the sea, but he wasn't above developing land-based skills. Dogsledding, unfortunately, wasn't among them. He had tried dogsled driving a few times as a diversion on ski trips, and after being thrown into snowdrifts a couple of times, he discovered that it looked easier than it was. The driver had to balance on runners that seemed as thin as knife blades, while trying to control a pack of an– imals only a few generations removed from their wolf brethren. Sled dogs were deceptively small, but welded together in a team, they produced an incredible explosion of power with their short legs.

He knew, too, that a dogsled driver had to come across as the leader of the pack if the strong-willed dogs were to respond to his commands. The team was on its feet even before he shouted the com– mand. The gang line connecting the dogs to the sled went taut, and the wheel almost jerked out of his hands. Austin ran several steps, helping the sled along, then he jumped on board and let the dogs do all the work. They bayed loudly, happy doing what they did best, which was to run their hearts out.

From the instant he had gotten his hand on the sled, the whole op– eration had taken only a few seconds. Scarface's men tried to cut the sled off. The dogs were too fast. They barked gleefully as they out– distanced their pursuers. Once they were in the clear, Austin exper– imented with the steering. He tried "gee" and "haw" commands to make the dogs go right and left, and he was glad to see that the team was multilingual. Steering required a tender touch on the wheel, es– pecially on the curves. Turn too sharply and the sled acted like the business end of a bullwhip, although the weight of two people kept all four wheels on the ground.

The combined load also kept their speed down. Austin hadn't considered this a problem, figuring that they could still outdistance a running man, especially the burly Scarface and his short-legged cohorts. His confidence drained away when he looked back. Umealiq s on the other sled in hot pursuit. Austin steered off the grass onto a paved walkway. The sled picked up speed on the smooth asphalt.

But he had to share the walkway, and this was presenting a problem, as he wove around obstacles like a slalom racer. He narrowly missed a young couple, then brushed by a man walking a toy poodle that yapped at Austin. He drove a woman on Rollerblades up on the turf and she swore creatively at him. Angry shouts and curses followed the sled as he pushed the dogs to even greater speed.

He tried to figure out how long the team would last, running at full tilt, and decided he didn't have much time. Sled dogs are accus– tomed to running in the cold and snow, and with their thick fur coats they would quickly become overheated in the warm evening tem– peratures. He glanced around to get his bearings. They were mov– ing across the Mall, away from the museum, toward the Castle and the Smithsonian quad. He looked behind him. Umealiq had gained ground, and it would be only a matter of time before he caught up.

"Easy," he commanded the dogs, and he put pressure on the brake to reinforce his command. They slowed.

"What are you doing?" Therri said.

"Get off!"

"What?"

"Get off and make a run for the lights and people around the Smithsonian. I can't outrun him with you on board. It's me he really wants."

Therri reluctantly overcame her natural inclination to argue. Comprehending the danger, she rolled off the sled, then got to her feet and started running. Austin shouted at the dogs to get moving. The team took off again in a neck-snapping start. He made a right– angle turn onto another path. The sled felt lighter and more re– sponsive, and he was moving faster than before. He was glad to see Scarface still chasing him. Therri was safe, but pausing to let her on had given Umealiq the chance to gain ground.

Austin's eyes were blurred with the sweat running down his fore– head. He wiped away the moisture with the sleeve of his tux and glanced over his shoulder. Scarface had cut the distance in half. Austin dodged another pedestrian and looked ahead. He could see the white spike of the Washington Monument in the distance. There might be armed security guards around the monument, but he would never make it that far. The dogs were becoming weary. He could feel them slow their pace slightly, and the sled was acting like a car run– ning out of gas. He urged the team on with the kissing sound he had heard the drivers use during the race.

Cars were moving along the street ahead of him. With luck and timing, he could put the traffic between him and his pursuers. The sled emerged from the Mall onto the sidewalk. Austin saw an open– ing between two moving vehicles and steered for it, hoping to whisk through to the other side of the street. The dogs hesitated, but he urged them on. The paws of the lead dog had left the curb when one of the ubiquitous limos that prowled the streets of Washington came out of nowhere and cut him off.

Austin cut the steering wheel hard. The lead dog was way ahead of him and had already changed directions, dashing off to the right with the team and the sled behind him. The sled heeled over at an angle like a boat sailing close to the wind. Austin compensated with his body, and the sled slammed back down on all four wheels and straightened out. The dogs were pulling the sled along the sidewalk. Scarface had cut the angle and was pacing Austin along the side– walk a few yards away.

The two sleds raced along the sidewalk like the chariot racers in Ben-Hur. The dogs swerved around pedestrians. Austin had just about relinquished control, conceding that the dogs could steer the ed far better than he could, and simply concentrated on hanging on. Even at top form, his skills would have been no match for the other driver. The sleds were running side by side, almost close enough to touch. Then Scarface upped the ante and aimed a pistol at Austin from a few feet away.

Austin had the feeling that someone had just painted a bull's-eye on his forehead. But getting a clean shot wouldn't be easy. Scarface held the wheel with his left hand and the pistol in his right. Without the stability of two hands holding on to the wheel, the sled wavered from side to side, and Scarface was finding it impossible to keep the pistol barrel leveled. He tried a shot anyhow.

The bullet missed Austin and went high. Austin took little com– fort from the wild shot. Scarface would keep trying until he emptied his gun. Even if the flying lead missed Austin, someone else could be hurt or killed. Acting more on instinct than intellect, Austin quickly touched his brakes. The Eskimo's sled pulled slightly ahead of him. Borrowing a page from Umealiq's book of dirty race tactics, Austin angled his sled to the right. His front wheel slammed into the rear wheel of the other sled, and Scarface fought to maintain control.

The maneuver was risky, but it had the desired effect. With only one sweat-soaked hand gripping the steering wheel, Scarface was unable to stop the rim from spinning. The sled's front wheels jack– knifed. The sled itself fishtailed, then flipped, and Scarface tumbled off, the pistol flying out of his hand and clattering onto the sidewalk. He rolled several times before coming to a stop. His dog team kept on running, dragging the sled on its side, before they figured out it was a waste of time.

Austin was in no position to celebrate. His team was pulling the sled toward Constitution Avenue. He yelled a command to stop and jammed his foot down on the brakes, but it was no use. The dogs had been spooked by the gunshot and unnerved by Austin's erratic driv– ing, and he realized he was simply along for the ride. They plunged into the busy boulevard without looking.

The sled flew off the curb, became airborne and slammed down on all four wheels. Austin's teeth rattled in his skull. There was a ban– shee screech as an SUV as big as a house slammed on its brakes, its massive chrome grille only inches away. Austin caught a glimpse of the horrified face behind the wheel, the driver's eyes popping out of his head as he watched a man in a tux drive a sled team across Wash– ington's busiest boulevard.

The best Austin could do was to hang on and try to keep the sled upright. His ears were filled with the squeal of brakes, and then he heard a thud as someone rear-ended another car. There were several more thuds as the chain reaction continued. The air reeked of the smell of burnt rubber. Then he was safely across the avenue, and the dogs were scrambling onto the opposite sidewalk. The sled was mov– ing slow enough for him to jump off before it hit the curb. The dogs were exhausted from running in the unaccustomed heat and had no desire to keep moving. They simply plopped down where they were, their sides heaving and their tongues dripping like faucets.

Austin looked back across the trail of chaos he had left on Con– stitution Avenue. Traffic on his side had come to a stop, and angry people were getting out of their cars to trade registration and license numbers. Scarface stood on the opposite curb, blood streaming down his face. He pulled his knife from his belt. Holding it close to his chest, he stepped off the curb, only to pause at the sound of sirens. Then one of the kennel trucks Austin had seen near the racecourse screeched to a stop, hiding the Eskimo from view for a few seconds. When it took off a second later, the man had vanished.

Austin went over to the panting dogs and patted each one on the head.

"We'll have to do this again, but not too soon," he said.

He brushed the knees and elbows of his tuxedo, but he knew he must look as if he were coming off a weekend binge. Shrugging in resignation, he walked back to the museum. Therri was standing on the Constitution Avenue side of the four-story granite edifice. The expression of anxiety on her face disappeared when she saw Austin

trudging toward her, and she ran over to throw her arms around him.

"Thank goodness you're all right," she said, hugging him in a tight embrace. "What happened to that awful man?"

"He got thrown for a loop by the Washington traffic and called it a night. Sorry I had to kick you off back there."

"That's all right. I've been dumped by guys before, although this is the first time it's been off a moving dogsled."

Therri said that after she had been unceremoniously kicked off the sled, she had found a police cruiser parked near the Castle. She'd told the police that her friend was in danger of being murdered on the Mall, and though the police had looked at her as if she were crazy, they did go to investigate. She had come back to the museum to look for Ben, but there'd been no sign of him. She was trying to decide what to do next when she heard the sirens, walked onto the boule– vard and saw Austin plodding down the avenue. They shared a cab back to their cars and parted with a lingering kiss and the promise to get in touch the next day.

A turquoise NUMA vehicle was in Austin's driveway when he got home, and the front door was unlocked. He walked into the house and heard the Dave Brubeck Quartet playing "Take Five" on the stereo. Sitting in Austin's favorite black leather chair with a drink in his hand was Rudi Gunn, second in command at NUMA. Gunn was a wiry little man, slim with narrow shoulders and matching hips. He was a master of logistics, a graduate of Annapolis and a former com– mander in the navy.

"Hope you don't mind my breaking into your house," Gunn said. "Not at all. That's why I gave you the lock code." Gunn pointed to the glass. "You're getting a little low on your Highland malt scotch whiskey," he said, his lips turning up in his typ– ical mischievous grin.

"I'll talk to the butler about it." Austin recognized the book that

Gunn was holding. "Didn't know you liked Nietzsche."

"I found it on the coffee table. Pretty heavy stuff."

"It might be heavier than you think," Austin said, going over to the bar to mix himself a Dark and Stormy.

Gunn put the book aside and picked up a bound folder from a side table. "Thanks for getting your report to me. I found it far more in– teresting than Mr. Nietzsche's writings."

"Thought you might," Austin said, settling into a sofa with his drink.

Gunn pushed his thick horn-rimmed glasses up onto his thinning hair and leafed through the folder. "At times like this, I realize what a boring life I lead," he said. "You've really missed your calling. You should be writing scripts for video games."

Austin took a big gulp of his drink, savoring the deep flavor of the dark rum and the tingle of the Jamaican ginger beer. "Naw. This stuff is too far-fetched."

"I beg to differ, old pal. What's far-fetched about a mysterious cor– poration that sinks ships by remote control? A long-lost cave with fantastic wall art in the Faroe Islands. A creature out of Jaws that knocks you on your ass." He started to chuckle uncontrollably. "Now that's something I would have liked to witness."