Текст книги "Crescent Dawn"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

12

“Does she sport a cotal transmission?” Pitt asked.

The older bearded man leaned over and opened the car’s driver’s-side door.

“She certainly does,” he said in a clearly American accent. “You familiar with Delahayes?” His face perked up as he gazed at the tall, dark-haired man and his attractive wife.

“I’ve long admired the marque,” Pitt replied, “especially the coachwork-bodied vehicles.”

“This is a 1948 Model 135 convertible coupe, with a custom body from the Paris shop of Henri Chapron.”

The large two-door convertible had clean but heavy lines that exemplified the simple designs of auto manufacturers immediately after World War II. Loren admired the striking green-and-silver paint scheme, which made the car look even longer.

“Did you restore it yourself?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m a miner by trade. I ran across the car at an old dacha in Georgia while working a project on the Black Sea coast. It was in rough shape but all there. Brought it back to Istanbul and had some local talent help me with the restoration. It’s not concours quality, but I think she looks nice. They squeezed a lot of speed out of her six-cylinder engine, so she runs like a demon.” He reached out a hand toward Pitt. “My name is Clive Cussler, by the way.”

Pitt shook the man’s hand, then quickly introduced himself and Loren.

“She’s a beauty,” Pitt added, though his eyes were focused on the nearby crowd. The man with the sunglasses was staring at him from five cars away, walking casually in his direction. Pitt spotted the other two men farther afield but closing from the flanks.

“Why are you selling the car?” he asked while quietly motioning Loren to approach the passenger door.

“I’m headed over to Malta for a bit and I won’t have room for it there,” the man said with a disappointed look. He smiled as Loren opened the left side suicide door. A black-and-tan dachshund sleeping on the seat gave her an annoyed look, then hopped out and ran to its owner. Loren slid into the leather-bound front passenger seat, then waved to Pitt.

“You look good in the car,” Cussler said, turning on the sales charm.

Loren smiled back. “Would it be all right if we took it for a little test-drive around the park?” she asked.

“Why, of course. The keys are in it.” He turned to Pitt. “You’re familiar with the Cotal transmission? You only need to use the clutch to start and stop.”

Pitt nodded as he quickly slipped behind the wheel of the right-hand-drive car. Turning the ignition key, he listened with satisfaction as the motor immediately fired to life.

“We’ll be back shortly,” he said, waving to the man out of the window.

Pitt reversed the car, then turned down the back row of show cars, hoping to avoid Sunglasses. The assailant stepped around the last car in line and spotted Pitt behind the wheel just as the Delahaye pulled forward. Pitt gently mashed the throttle, trying to keep the rear wheels from spinning on the slick grass as the car lurched ahead. Sunglasses hesitated, then yelled for him to stop. Pitt promptly ignored the plea as the tires found their grip and the old car accelerated quickly, leaving the man in his tracks.

Pitt could hear additional shouting over the whine of the engine, then Loren called out a warning ahead. The Topkapi thief in the blue shirt appeared along the row of cars a dozen yards ahead.

“He’s got a gun,” Loren yelled as the accelerating car drew them closer.

Pitt could see that the man had produced a handgun, which he tried to obscure by holding it flat against the side of his leg. He stood near the back of a Peugeot wood-paneled wagon, waiting for the Delahaye to draw alongside.

With the motor screaming at high revolutions, Pitt popped the French car’s tiny dash-mounted shifter into second gear. Just a few feet ahead, the blue-shirted man raised his arm holding the pistol.

“Duck down,” Pitt shouted, then floored the accelerator.

The triple-carbureted engine spurted power, throwing Pitt and Loren back into their seats. The sudden acceleration threw off the gunman’s timing as well, and he quickly struggled to aim the weapon toward the windshield. Pitt refused to give him the chance.

Yanking the steering wheel hard to the right, Pitt aimed the Delahaye’s curved prow directly for the startled gunman. Blocked by the back of the Peugeot, the man had only one way to move. Furiously backpedaling, he abandoned making a precise shot in order to avoid becoming a hood ornament.

The Delahaye’s front fender scraped along the Peugeot’s bumper before creasing the gunman’s leg, knocking him away from the car. Two shots rang out from his pistol before he crumpled alongside the Peugeot, writhing in agony. Both shots flew high, one shredding through the canvas roof, the other catching air.

Pitt hurriedly cranked the steering wheel back to avoid ramming the remaining row of cars. Fishtailing across the lawn, the Delahaye nearly struck a farmer’s pickup truck entering the park loaded with melons. Shocked visitors scattered from their path as Pitt pounded on the horn in warning. Stealing a glance in the rearview mirror, he spotted Sunglasses and the Persian approaching the downed gunman, but neither had a weapon drawn.

Loren peeked up from beneath the dash, the color drained from her face. As they wheeled toward the park exit, Pitt gave her a reassuring wink.

“That fellow was right,” he said with a slight grin. “She is a demon.”

* * *

Pitt made as if he knew where he was going, bursting out of the park and turning left down the main road, which headed south along the Bosphorus toward Istanbul. The park gunmen showed no hesitation in making pursuit, quickly commandeering the farmer’s idling truck at gunpoint. Shoving their injured accomplice in first, the other two men hopped into the vehicle and roared out of the park while melons flew off the truck bed like fired cannon shot.

Despite the Delahaye’s age, Pitt and Loren had the advantage in vehicles. The French car’s roots had been in racing, with Delahayes competing successfully in the prewar Le Mans races. Hidden beneath the streamlined bodies custom-built for rich and famous Parisians were high-performing motor machines. A taut suspension and high-revving engine, by 1950s standards, gave Pitt ample opportunity to drive fast. The narrow, winding road, sprinkled with afternoon traffic, would prove to be an equalizer, however.

Screaming through the curves with the pedal to the floor, Pitt quickly shifted through the Cotal transmission. With the use of electromagnetic clutches, the transmission allowed Pitt to change gears by simply flicking the small gear lever mounted on the dash. He was well versed in driving old cars, having his own collection of antique vehicles housed in an airport hangar near Washington, D.C. It was a passion akin to his love of the sea, and he found he was actually enjoying himself, if not the circumstances, in pushing the old Delahaye to its limits.

Loren kept a resolute eye out the convertible’s rear window as they squealed through a tight S-turn. She noticed Pitt frowning as he glanced at the instrument panel.

“Something wrong?”

“The fuel gauge is tickling empty,” he replied. “I’m afraid a test-drive to Istanbul isn’t in the cards.”

An uptick in traffic began to impede their headway, and on a straight section of road Loren spotted the truck behind them playing catch-up at high speed.

“We need to find a busy place to lose them,” she suggested.

There were few options on the small road, which traveled through an area filled with stately mansions. More cars clogged the roadway as they approached the village of Buyukdere, and Pitt passed the slower vehicles at every opportunity. Aided by the traffic, the pickup truck had steadily closed to within a quarter mile, with just a handful of interceding cars in between.

Pitt considered entering the populated portion of the village to the west, but slow-moving traffic clogged the artery into town. Skipping the cutoff, he clung to the coastal road, which suddenly spurted over the water on a lengthy bridged section. Finding a letup of oncoming traffic, Pitt accelerated hard, passing a line of cars slowed by a lethargic dump truck. He shook free of most of the traffic as the road touched land again, winding past the Bosphorus version of Embassy Row, where numerous foreign consulates occupied opulent summer retreats along the waterside.

“How’s our melon truck holding up?” Pitt asked, his eyes glued to the road ahead.

“Just passing that dump truck, about a half mile back,” Loren reported, before the vehicles behind them disappeared in a sweeping curve.

The green Delahaye tore past the ornate grounds of the British Summer Embassy when Pitt was suddenly forced to downshift while braking hard. Up ahead, a large moving van was unsuccessfully trying to back into a private drive, blocking both lanes of traffic in the process.

“Get out of the way!” Loren found herself yelling.

The truck driver never heard her, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He casually inched the truck forward for a second try, ignoring the blare of car horns honking from the other direction.

Pitt quickly scanned the road for an out and found only one. Dropping the car into low gear, he sped forward and turned into the open gate of a walled estate to his right. The paved road turned to crushed gravel as they entered the grounds of an aging wooden mansion once owned by the Danish Royal Family. A sweeping circular drive divided a vast overgrown garden before looping past the steps of the salmon-colored main residence.

A gardener tending roses in the center island looked on incredulously as the old French sports car entered the grounds, appearing as if it was an original inhabitant of the estate. He watched curiously as the Delahaye slowed to a stop behind some thick shrubs rather than continuing on to the manor’s front steps. A few seconds later, he realized why.

Preceded by the screech of skidding tires, the weathered pickup truck suddenly barreled through the front gate. The driver took the turn too fast, and the truck’s tail drifted into a stone entry pillar, clipping the left rear fender. A few surviving melons popped out of the truck bed and disintegrated against the side of the pillar, leaving a trail of sticky orange flesh dripping to the ground.

The driver quickly regained control and charged toward the Delahaye, which sat idling straight ahead. Pitt intentionally baited the truck, not wanting it to stop and blockade the gate. He quickly stomped on the gas and popped the clutch, spewing a cloud of gravel and dust as the car shot forward. The truck closed fast, but not before Pitt reached the semicircular portion of the drive that curved past the residence. He accelerated hard as he turned left, blowing past the manor and into the opposite curve.

In the truck a dozen yards behind, the Persian leaned out the passenger window with a Glock automatic and began firing at the French car. Because of the angle of the curve, he had to reach out in front of the truck’s windshield to aim, handicapping his accuracy. A few shots tore through the Delahaye’s trunk, but the passengers and car mechanicals went unscathed.

By now, Pitt was drifting the car through the second curve, feathering the throttle to maintain momentum. At the outer edge of the turn, a large statue of Venus stood off the drive, with one raised arm pointing to the heavens.

“Look out,” Loren shrieked as the speeding Delahaye drifted toward the marble statue.

Pitt held the wheel firm and eased his foot harder on the accelerator. As a succession of gunshots whistled over the roof, the car continued to slide toward the edge of the drive and the imposing Venus. The car’s tires spun, then slowly bit into the loose gravel as the vehicle’s momentum gradually shifted forward. Loren gripped the dashboard with white knuckles as the Delahaye’s prow slipped onto the grass, heading for the bulk of marble. But the rear tires found their grip, shoving the front of the car just past the statue before nosing back onto the drive. Pitt and Loren heard a sharp scraping sound as the rear fender skimmed Venus’s base, which ceased when all four wheels regained the gravel.

“You tore her arm off,” Loren remarked, peering out the back window at the statue.

“I certainly hope that the Delahaye’s owner carries collision insurance,” Pitt said without looking back.

As the Delahaye charged toward the front gate, it was the truck’s turn to navigate the second curve. The Persian still had his pistol dangling out the passenger door, lofting shots at the Delahaye while urging the driver to go faster. But with a higher center of gravity and balding tires, there was no way the truck could match the French convertible’s slalom through the curve. Attempting to match speed, the ungainly vehicle almost immediately lost traction and began a sideways slip in the direction of the statue. Panicking as they started to drift off the driveway, Sunglasses stomped on the brakes, which only served to exacerbate the lateral drift.

The groundskeeper stared with his jaw open as the old truck smashed into Venus at a hard angle. The mangled artwork disappeared in a cloud of dust as the truck bounded forward and into a spin. Sliding back across the gravel drive, the truck spun three times before plowing into a thicket of small willows. The vehicle continued to slide, finally jarring to a halt against a thick chestnut tree as the three occupants were hurled against the dashboard.

Sunglasses slumped back into his seat, rubbing a fat lip obtained from kissing the steering wheel. Beside him, the man in the blue shirt was stemming the flow of blood from a mashed nose. Only the Persian escaped the collision unscathed, having braced himself with his free arm.

Listening to the engine idling without damage, he turned to the driver.

“Let’s keep after them.”

Sunglasses shook off his daze and reversed gear, roughly bouncing the truck back onto the drive. Hitting the brakes, a loud clattering arose from behind the cab. The Persian glanced out the rear window to see the decapitated head of Venus rolling about the truck bed with a clatter.

By the time they got back onto the drive, Pitt had already exited the estate. As he had hoped, the diversion had allowed sufficient time for the moving truck to sort itself out, and the coastal road was now clear. Pitt quickly pushed the old car up to high speed on the paved road.

“We might have bought a little time,” he said, “but we’re about out of gas.”

Loren leaned over to see the fuel gauge needle flicker directly above the E.

“Maybe they’ll stay in the clutches of Venus,” she said hopefully.

Speeding past the Austrian Summer Embassy, the road opening up, they could see another shoreside village up ahead. A large car ferry was visible at the town dock, loading passengers and vehicles for a run down the Bosphorus.

“That ferry might be our best bet,” Pitt said as the road dropped sharply to the waterfront.

“Yes, for that peaceful, relaxing cruise you were telling me about,” Loren muttered.

A roguish grin crossed Pitt’s lips. “Peaceful, perhaps, for someone,” he replied.

They drove past a sign proclaiming the town of Yenikoy, and made their way through light traffic to the dock. Pitt pulled up behind an open truck loaded with oriental carpets waiting to board the ferry. He quickly scanned the dockside, eyeing a row of waterfront bars and restaurants similar to those in Sariyer.

“There’s the truck,” Loren suddenly blurted.

Pitt looked back up the road, catching a glimpse of the truck approaching the town a half mile away. He turned to Loren and motioned up a side street with his thumb.

“I want you to slip up to that restaurant with the green awning and order me a beer,” he said.

“The dingy place with the darkened windows?” she asked, looking past a number of clean, respectable establishments.

Pitt nodded.

“What about our cruise?”

“We’re going to give our seats up for our friends. Stay put until I get there. Now, go,” he directed, giving her a quick kiss.

He watched as she climbed out of the car and hightailed it up the street, then tentatively entered the scruffy bar. A few seconds later, he spotted the pickup truck in his rearview mirror rumbling up to the dock. Pitt noted with some amusement that the truck’s front fender was mashed flat and streaked with white marble dust. A demolished front headlight left a vacant cavity that now resembled an empty eye socket. There was no doubt that the assailants had spotted the French car as the battered truck took its place in line to board the ferry three cars behind Pitt.

Pitt noticed the carpet truck in front of him dawdle as the ramp to the ferry cleared free and he quickly revved the Delahaye and jumped past the big vehicle, eliciting an angry honk from the driver. The truck offered a slight buffer of concealment, which Pitt hoped would hide the fact that he was the lone occupant in the car.

Pitt paid the toll attendant and drove onto the car deck of the covered ferry, pulling up behind a small sedan packed with young kids. He quickly jumped out of the car and looked behind him. The carpet truck was stuck idling alongside the toll attendant, blocking the other vehicles as its driver fished in his pockets for fare money. If any of the gunmen had hopped out of the pickup truck, they weren’t yet visible. Pitt turned around and surveyed the ferryboat.

It was a double-decker, with the covered lower deck carrying the vehicles while passengers sat topside. He started to step toward a staircase when he spotted a vendor selling popcorn to the kids parked in front of him. The man was almost Pitt’s height and build, with similar dark wavy hair.

“Excuse me,” Pitt called to the man. “Would you be kind enough to watch my car while I go to the restroom?” He pulled a ten-lira Turkish bill out of his wallet as he asked the question.

The vendor spotted the note and nodded profusely. “Why, yes, of course,” he answered.

Pitt stuffed the bill into the man’s hand, then guided him to the driver’s door.

“Please sit inside,” Pitt requested. “Nobody will bother my car if it is occupied.”

The man set down his rack of popcorn and eagerly jumped inside, excited to sit in the stylish old car.

“I’ll be right back,” Pitt said with a wink, then hurried toward the staircase.

He climbed to the upper deck and melded through the passengers as he made his way to the stern. The pickup truck was just coming up the ramp as he peered over the side, spotting all three figures sitting inside the cab.

The pickup was the last vehicle to board, and the dock crew soon pulled away the car ramp while the ferry crew raised a collapsible gate across the stern. Pitt felt the engine rumble belowdecks, then three blasts of the horn announced the ferry’s imminent departure. Making his way to the stern rail, he waited for the ferry’s prop to engage, then glanced forward.

At the head of the center stairwell, he saw Sunglasses appear, searching the crowd in frantic haste. Pitt could only imagine the look in the gunmen’s faces when they had approached the Delahaye only to find a popcorn vendor sitting behind the wheel. He had little time to consider the amusement, though, as the deck suddenly swayed beneath his feet and a surge of boiling water arose off the ferry’s stern.

He quickly climbed over the rail, creating a minor stir among the surrounding passengers that immediately drew Sunglasses’ attention. The gunman started running across the deck, but Pitt disappeared from sight. He lowered himself from a rail stanchion until he hung by outstretched arms and then dropped himself to the lower deck. Landing in a tuck, he sprang to his feet and vaulted over the lower deck stern gate, then leaped from the transom in a furious lunge for the dock.

The ferry had pulled a few feet away when he jumped, and Pitt just managed to catch a foot on the edge of the auto ramp and roll forward. Tumbling down the ramp, he regained his balance and slowly stood up. The accelerating ferry was moving quickly into the channel, already putting nearly twenty feet between itself and the dock.

Pitt looked up to see Sunglasses rush to the ferry’s upper rail and stare dismally at the growing distance between ship and shore. The assailant turned his gaze to Pitt, instinctively reaching a hand toward the holster he wore beneath a light jacket before abandoning the notion.

Pitt studied the figure, then threw him a jovial wave as if he were an old friend. Sunglasses stood impervious, staring back at Pitt with a face of chilled granite, as the ferry slowly made its way down the strait.