Текст книги "Lost Empire"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

CHAPTER 33

MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN

THEY TOOK THEIR TIME ON THE WAY OUT, PAUSING FIRST IN THE grotto, then repeating Sam’s peek through the cascade before sliding on their bellies through the boulders and into the lagoon. They stroked across to the beach and climbed from the water. While Remi wrung the water from her hair, Sam took off his boots and drained them.Leaning forward, her head tilted to one side, Remi murmured to Sam, “There’s someone waving at us.”

“Where?”

Remi pointed with her eyes toward what looked like a pile of undergrowth from which was jutting a hand and forearm. The hand was holding a Webley Model Mark VI. It gesticulated wildly as though trying to warn them away.Sam put his hand on the butt of the Webley in his waistband.

Crack!

A bullet thumped into the sand between his legs.

Sam froze, as did Remi, her hands still tangled in her hair. At the pile of undergrowth, the Kid’s arm slowly withdrew into cover.

“Guess they doubled back,” Remi observed.

“Seems so. Did you happen to read the manners and etiquette section of the Madagascar guide?”

“I thought you did that.” “Skimmed it.”

Slowly Sam raised his hands above his head and turned around. Remi did the same. Predictably, standing above the waterfall atop the lion’s head were the six rebels. Standing near the ledge, arms akimbo, the leader called down, “No move! Understand, no move!”Sam nodded, called back, “No move.”

UNDER THE WATCHFUL EYE of the lone sniper atop the lion’s head, the other five rebels made their way down via some unseen trail in the rocks. Soon they were standing in a semicircle around Sam and Remi. The leader stepped forward, scrutinized Sam’s eyes, then glanced over and gave Remi a foot-to-head once-over. The leader reached out, plucked the Webley from Sam’s waistband, then lifted it up for examination.“Good gun,” he proclaimed in his broken English.

“Good gun,” Sam agreed.

“You are who?”

“Sam.”

“Tolotra. Who is woman?”

A bit of Madagascar etiquette popped into Sam’s head. Carefully he lowered his right hand and pointed to Remi, careful to keep the tip of his index finger curled back toward himself. “My wife. Remi.”

Sam’s gesture was not lost on Tolotra. He looked at Remi, then back to Sam, then nodded thoughtfully. Tolotra’s next statement told Sam that his recognition of a Madagascar custom wasn’t going to be a get-out-of-jail-free card.“Sam . . . Remi. Hostages now.”

ONE OF THE REBELS drew two lengths of rope from his belt and stepped forward as if to bind Sam and Remi’s hands. Tolotra waved the man off and said to Sam, “You run, we shoot. No run. You promise?”

Evidently, Sam’s bent index finger had done some good.In response, Sam raised his right hand up, ceremoniously crossed his index and middle fingers, then nodded solemnly. “Not on your life,” he said.

Beside him, Remi rolled her eyes. “Oh, God.”

Tolotra studied Sam’s gesture for a moment, then smiled and mimicked him. “Not on your life.” Tolotra turned and showed the gesture to his men. “Not on your life!”

“Not on your life!” the men cheered back.

Remi whispered, “If any one of them has an English phrase book, we’re dead. You know that, don’t you?”

THEY WERE PLACED in the middle of a well-staggered, single-file group and marched away from the lagoon, passing within five feet of the Kid’s hiding place, before turning onto a trail that paralleled the river. Whatever language advantage Sam and Remi might have had was offset by the bandits’ hostage-wrangling skills. They were never under the guns of fewer than two men who always maintained a minimum ten-foot gap. Moreover, the group’s navigation skills were on par with those of the Kid’s, and soon Sam and Remi had lost whatever landmarks to which they’d been clinging.

After walking for forty minutes, the jungle thinned, and the trail broke into sunlight. They were back on the savanna, Sam realized, but how far from the one he, Remi, and the Kid had used earlier that day he had no clue. The ocean was on their left, the forested escarpment on their right. They were heading south.After another twenty minutes they were back in the jungle, this time following a fairly straight trail, so Sam was able to maintain his bearings.

“I think we’re near the road,” he whispered to Remi.

“That’s probably how they found us-they found the Rover. Have you seen you know who?”

“No, but he’s out there.”

Walking at the head of the line, Tolotra turned around and barked, “No talking!” He held up his crossed fingers as if to lend gravity to the order. Sam returned the gesture.

Remi murmured, “How nice. You made a friend.” “Hope I don’t have to shoot him.”

“With what? An invisible rubber-band gun?”

“No, my Webley,” Sam grumbled, his eyes fixed on Tolotra. “After I take it away from him.”

“No talking!”

SAM’S GUESS ABOUT their location was right. A few minutes later Tolotra reached an intersection of trails and turned right. The grade increased until they were pulling themselves up using exposed roots and low-hanging branches. The terrain had no effect on the bandits’ discipline, however; whenever Sam and Remi looked around, they found themselves staring down at least two rifle muzzles.

The trail leveled out and reached a set of natural root steps in the hillside. Sam and Remi reached the top and found themselves standing on a gravel road. A quarter mile to the south, a rusted white Chevy pickup truck sat on the shoulder; ahead of it, Sam and Remi’s Range Rover. And looming above both, the Three Wise Men.“Where now?” Sam asked Tolotra.

He and Remi were under no illusions. While their hands being unbound was an advantage, this was not a Hollywood movie. Without a major distraction, any attempt to get the jump on any of these rebels would not only fail but likely end with them dying. Their chances would only worsen once they were put in vehicles.“Secret place,” Tolotra replied.

“You want ransom, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know we’re worth anything?”

Tolotra considered this for a moment as though sorting through his grasp of English. “Packs, clothes, camera-all expensive. Car expensive.”

“It’s a rental,” Remi said.

“Eh?” “Nothing.”

Sam, still trusting his hunch that the Kid hadn’t abandoned them, had been surreptitiously scanning their surroundings. Now, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed movement on the slope above the road. He saw a flash of silvery hair appear between a pair of boulders.Sam said, “We have gold.”

This had the desired effect. Those in the group that hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation turned to face Sam. Tolotra took a step closer.

“Gold? Where? How much?”

The Kid’s head popped up from behind the boulder. He caught Sam’s eye, winked, pointed toward the vehicles down the road, then ducked from view again.

Sam looked to Remi. Her expression told him she’d seen the Kid. Sam said, “How much do you think, Remi?”

“I don’t know . . . a couple dozen double eagle coins.”

This was enough for Tolotra. Eyes narrowed, he nodded sagely. “Where?”

“Our hotel in Antananarivo.”

“You give us coins, you go free.”

This was a lie, Sam assumed, but it was a step in the right direction. Even if the worst happened and the Kid was unable to intervene here, he and Remi would fare much better moving toward civilization than away from it. No doubt Tolotra’s “secret place” was good enough to keep them hidden from government forces. If, however, Tolotra’s discretion overwhelmed his greed en route to Antananarivo, Sam and Remi would find themselves back to square one.“We go now,” Tolotra announced.

Again the group fell into formation with Sam and Remi in the middle. Using their peripheral vision, Sam and Remi kept watch for the Kid, but there was no sign of him. Whatever the old truffle hunter had planned, they would have to be ready to react and improvise.THEY DREW EVEN WITH the Chevy pickup truck and stopped. Sam and Remi’s packs were tossed into the bed.

Sam whispered to Remi, “Stay sharp.”

Tolotra and four of the others clustered around the tailgate and began conversing. The sixth man stood ten feet behind Sam and Remi, his rifle trained on their lower backs. Based on Tolotra’s gestures, Sam assumed they were trying to decide how best to execute the drive into Antananarivo-essentially, the enemy’s capital.

Remi was the first to realize the Kid’s plan was unfolding. With her eyes, she guided Sam’s gaze over the roof of the Chevy and up the middle Wise Man to the top. At first Sam saw nothing, and then, almost imperceptibly, a barrel-sized boulder began inching toward the edge.Sam whispered, “When I move, go for the Range Rover.”

Tolotra turned and glared at Sam. Sam shrugged and smiled apologetically.

Remi whispered, “Okay.”

Atop the Wise Man, the boulder had reached the edge, where it stopped. Sam and Remi took a deep breath. Waited. The boulder wiggled forward, paused momentarily, then tipped over the edge and started falling. The pillar’s face was a slope, angled slightly backward, and smooth save some bumps near the bottom. The combination of the face, gravity, and the boulder’s kinetic friction kept it adhered to the face. The engineer in Sam knew that would end as soon as the boulder hit its first bump, at which point the boulder would become a stone artillery shell.

Knowing no Malagasy, Sam did what he hoped would cause the most panic: He let out a distinctly un-macho, high-pitched scream, pointed at the boulder, and shouted, “Boulder!”

In unison, Tolotra and his men glanced up. Lacking the advantage of the foreknowledge Sam and Remi had, everyone froze and stared in awe. Sam, having kept his eye on Tolotra for most of the hike and having rehearsed his actions, took two leaping steps forward, heel-kicked Tolotra in the back of the knee, and, as he fell, jerked the Webley-Fosbury from his waistband.

Behind him, Remi’s guard screamed something that Sam assumed was “Stop!,” which he further assumed would be followed by the guard drawing a bead on the fleeing Remi. Sam never gave him the chance. With the Webley now free, Sam latched his left hand onto Tolotra’s collar and pistol-whipped him in the side of the head. Tolotra grunted and went limp.

Sam spun on one heel and dropped to his knees, putting Tolotra between him and four other men, two of whom were backing across the road, the other two scrambling around to the Chevy’s opposite side. Sam’s spin naturally brought the Webley around to point in the general direction of Remi’s guard. As Sam had feared, the man was jerking the rifle up to his shoulder, the barrel tracking Remi as she sprinted toward the Range Rover.

Sam fired once, hitting the man on the sternum. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the man dropped straight down, dead. Sam wrapped his left forearm around Tolotra’s throat, pulled him tighter, then shifted his aim toward the two rebels backing across the road. Both had their rifles trained on Sam, obviously trying to decide whether to risk the shot. Sam shifted the Webley’s sights from one man to the next. On the other side of the truck, he could hear the other two men moving through the high grass along the shoulder.Boom. The ground shuddered, followed by the snapping of limbs. Another shudder, like a giant was on the march. Sam felt it in his belly.

Remi shouted, “Boulder’s bouncing!”

“Where!”

“Coming your way!”

Boom. Closer this time.

On the other side of the truck the two rebels shouted.

“They’re running!” Remi called.

The two in front of Sam did the same, turning and sprinting back down the road.

Boom.

“Hold tight, Sam! It’s almost on you! Three . . . two . . . one . . .” Sam curled into a ball. Above his head there came the wrenching of steel. Glass shattered. He felt the Chevy lurch to the side, shoving him and Tolotra over the gravel. A shadow passed overhead. Boom. The boulder struck the far side of the road, bounced once, then disappeared over the shoulder, bulldozing trees as it went. After another ten seconds the sound stopped. Sam looked up, glanced around.

Down the road, the four remaining rebels had stopped running. After a brief huddled conference, they started back toward Sam and Remi. Sam, having watched Tolotra pocket the Rover’s keys, dug them out.“Remi, better start the Rover,” he called.

He tossed the keys up the road, then pointed the Webley down the road and took aim on the four advancing rebels.

One of them stumbled sideways, clutched his thigh, and crumbled to the road, followed a split second later by a basso pop. Though Sam had never heard that particular sound, he surmised it was the report of a .455 caliber bullet from a circa 1915 Webley Model Mark VI revolver.The remaining three rebels stopped, whirled toward the Wise Men.

A second bullet struck, this one between the legs of the center man. He backed up a few steps, followed by the second man. The third man, however, was a slow learner. Half crouching, his eyes scanning the high ground, he slowly brought his rifle to his shoulder. He got a bullet in the left kneecap for his trouble. He screamed and toppled over.

From the direction of the Wise Men, a disembodied voice shouted something. The two still-armed rebels dropped their guns. Another shout. The able-bodied men helped their comrades to their feet, and the group began limping off down the road.

Sam shoved the unconscious Tolotra off him and climbed to his feet. Remi walked up. Together, they stared at what remained of the Chevy. Aside from the four twisted stumps that formed the cab, the pickup had been decapitated.A voice called, “Looking at it, you’d think that’s exactly what I had planned.”

A figure emerged from the trees at the base of the Wise Men and began striding toward them.

“Didn’t you?” Sam asked the Kid.

“I’ll never tell.”

Remi said, “You certainly know how to create a distraction.” The Kid stopped before them. “It was all Mother Nature, my dear. And the luck of the bounce, of course.”

“Thanks for not deserting us,” said Sam. “Don’t mention it.”

Sam hefted the Webley-Fosbury in his hand, appraised the weapon for a moment, then handed it to the Kid, who frowned and shook his head. “She’s yours now.”

“Pardon me?”

“Until today, she’d never been fired. It’s a tradition, you see . . . Chinese, if I recall.”

Remi smiled. “I think you’re thinking of, ‘Save a life and you’re responsible for it.’”

The Kid shrugged. “Either way, Mr. Fargo, she’s yours now.”

“Thanks. I’ll treasure it. What should we do with these two?” Sam asked, pointing to Tolotra and the dead man on the road.

“Leave them. The sooner you get to Antananarivo, the better.” The Kid read Sam and Remi’s somber expressions. “Don’t give it a second thought. They would’ve killed you.”

“How do you know that for sure?” Remi said.

“In the last five years, there’ve been sixty-three kidnappings here. Ransom paid or unpaid, not one came back alive. Trust me, it was you or them.”

Sam and Remi considered this, then nodded. Sam shook the Kid’s hand, then grabbed their packs from the truck’s bed as Remi gave their savior a hug. They turned and headed toward the Range Rover.“One more thing,” the Kid called.

Sam and Remi turned back. The Kid dug into his pack and came out with a small burlap bag. He handed it to them. “Truffles for your troubles,” the Kid said. Then he crossed the road and disappeared into the brush.

Sam turned the burlap bag over in his hands. Stamped on the side in red ink was a logo-the letter C, and beside it, in smaller letters, ussler Truffles.Remi said, “That’s nice of him. But what’s an ‘ussler’?”

CHAPTER 34

MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN

THEY WERE ALMOST HALFWAY BACK TO ANTANANARIVO AND approaching a village named Moramanga at the junction of Routes 2 and 44 when their satellite phone trilled. In the passenger seat, Remi answered. “It’s Rube,” she said after a moment, then put it on speakerphone.“Hi, Rube,” Sam called.

“Where are you?”

“Madagascar.”

“Damn. I was afraid of that.”

Remi said, “Something tells me it’s not just a general dislike of Madagascar that’s got you bothered.”

“Someone flagged your passports at the Antananarivo airport.”

“When?” asked Remi.

“A couple days before you arrived.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Sam asked. “We weren’t stopped when we went through immigration.”

“That’s what’s got me worried. If it was a government-level request, you would have been stopped there. In spookspeak, the flag you got is called a ‘note-and-notify.’ Somebody just wanted to know when you got there.”“And it doesn’t have to be someone in the government,” Sam said.

“In Third World countries, where the average annual income is a few hundred dollars, you can buy a note-and-notify for the price of a cup of coffee. And since Rivera’s already shown he’s got connections in Africa . . .”“Understood,” Sam replied. “Recommendations?”

“Assume somebody’s actively looking for you; assume they’ll find you. Don’t go back to Antananarivo. Have Selma track down a private airstrip and a pilot who doesn’t mind working for cash and won’t bother with passports.”

Such was the downside of being who they were. While far from famous, Sam and Remi had something of a reputation in the adventurer/ treasure-hunting community, and while naturally they had a few detractors, they were widely respected. Getting caught sneaking into and out of countries on false passports could potentially cause more trouble than it was worth: jail, expulsion, headlines, being labeled persona non grata, and, perhaps most important, the evaporation of invaluable contacts in the academic world. By playing it mostly aboveboard, Sam and Remi were often easy targets for anyone willing and able to bribe the right person in the right place.Remi said, “We know about the political situation. How does that affect things?”

“Badly. Stay near civilization and know where the police stations are.”

“That could be a problem. We’re a little off the beaten path right now.”

“Why am I not surprised? Okay, give me a second.” The line went silent for two minutes, then Rube returned. “Best guess puts the rebels about a week away from being ready for a major attack, but that doesn’t rule out skirmishes. Most of the cities within fifty miles of Antananarivo should be okay. The bigger, the better. Head south if possible. The rebels are clustered in the north. The downside is-”“Rivera and his goons will be thinking the same thing and looking in those places,” Sam finished.

“Right. Wish I could be of more help.”

“Rube, you’re the best. Don’t ever doubt it. We’ll call when we’re safe.”

THEIR NEXT CALL went to Selma, who listened, asked a few questions, and said, “I’m on it,” then hung up.

Now Remi studied the map as Sam drove.

“We’ve got two options,” she said after a few minutes. “One, take one of the dozens of roads-and I use that term very loosely-that head generally south, or close to within a couple miles of Antananarivo. There’s a two-lane blacktop that circles the city to the east and then links up with Route 7 heading south.”“How do the unnamed roads look?”

“As you’d expect: dirt and gravel, at best.” “Multiple choices make for a harder trail to follow,” Sam observed.

“And if we’re aiming for Route 7, it’ll add five or six hours onto our travel time. Which takes us well past nightfall.”

“My vote is blacktop,” Sam said.

“Seconded.”

“Different subject . . . The fact that Rivera flagged our passports here, of all places, means something.”

Remi was nodding. “It’s not hard to guess what that is. They knew there was something here to find. But is it the outrigger we found or something more?”

“We’ll know that when we know what got them interested in Madagascar in the first place. My guess: They’ve been here before and didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“Which begs the question: Where else have they been?”

THE AFTERNOON WORE ON. Past Moramanga, moving ever westward and upward, they passed mile after mile of rice paddies and drove through village after village, each one bearing a quaint name that Remi described as “part Malagasy, part French, with a dash of Italian”: Andranokobaka, Ambodigavo, Ambatonifody. . . .

Ten miles east of Anosibe Ifody the terrain began to change yet again, giving way to tropical forest interspersed with rugged brown hills that reminded Sam and Remi of Tuscany. Jagged escarpments, glowing brownish gold in the sun, rose above the treetops to the north and south. Shortly after three o’clock they stopped at a Jovenna gas station on the outskirts of Manjakandriana. Remi went inside for snacks and water while Sam pumped the gas.

Down the block, a white Volkswagen Passat police vehicle came around the corner and headed toward the gas station. Moving at a sedate twenty miles per hour, the Passat slowed as it drew even with the Range Rover. After a few more seconds the Passat sped up and continued down the block, where it pulled to the side of the road and parked. Through the rear window Sam saw the driver pluck something off the dashboard and bring it to his mouth.Remi came out with four bottles of water and a few bags of pretzels. Sam got back in the driver’s seat.

“You’re wearing your frowny face,” Remi observed. “It may be exhaustion or paranoia, or a combination of the two, but I think that police car is interested in us.”“Where?”

“Down the block, under the awning with the old Coca-Cola sign.”

Remi checked the side mirror. “I see him.”

“He slowed beside us, then parked and got on the radio.”

Sam started the engine. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“What exactly are we doing?” Remi asked.

“Giving him a chance.”

Remi caught on: “If it’s official business, he’ll stop us here. If not . . . ‘note-and-notify.’”

“Right.” Sam put the Rover in gear. “Time to play navigator again, Remi. We’re backtracking.”

“To where?”

“Hopefully, nowhere. If he doesn’t follow us, we’ll turn around again.”

“And if he follows us?”

“Then we’re on the run. We’ll be needing one of those unnamed roads you mentioned.”

“WE’RE ON THE RUN,” Remi announced a few minutes later. Facing backward, she’d been staring through the rear window since they’d left Manjakandriana. “He’s a mile back.”“We’ve got some dips and turns coming up. Let me know each time you lose sight of him.”

“Why?”

“If we sprint while he’s watching us he’ll know we’re running; this way we may be able to get some distance before he realizes it.”

“Tricky, Fargo.”

“Only if it works.”

“What if he tries to stop us?”

“I don’t even want to think about it.”

FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES Sam followed Remi’s cues, flooring the gas pedal for a ten count when Remi said, “Go!,” before slowing back down to the speed limit. Slowly but steadily, they put an extra half mile between them and the Passat.“Are any of those roads not gravel or dirt?” Sam asked.

Remi studied the map. “Hard to tell, but this one coming up looks a tad thicker than the others. So far on this map, that’s usually meant blacktop of some kind. Why do you ask?”“No dust trail.”

“From a quick turn,” Remi said. “That could work both ways.”

Sam frowned. “Good point. Tell me when the turn’s coming up.”

For the next few minutes Remi matched passing roads and signs against the map’s markings. “Should be the next turn to the south.” She measured the distance with her fingernail. “A quarter mile, give or take. Should be just over this hill.”“How’s our friend?”

“Hard to be sure, but it looks like he’s picked up speed.”

They crested the hill and started down. Ahead, Sam saw the turnoff Remi had indicated. Sam jammed the accelerator to the floorboard, and the Range Rover surged forward. Her eyes wide, Remi braced herself against the dashboard. A hundred yards from the turn, Sam switched his foot to the brake, pressing as hard as he dared without skidding, and brought the Rover down to sixty-five kilometers per hour, or forty miles per hour.

“Hang on,” Sam said, then slewed the wheel right. Despite the Rover’s high center of gravity, the tires clung to the road, but Sam could see he’d overshot the turn. He eased the wheel left, then tapped the brakes and jerked the wheel right again. The Rover’s tail whipped around. The driver’s-side rear tire slipped off the shoulder. They felt the Rover tipping sideways. Sam resisted the impulse to correct right and instead steered into the skid, dropping the driver’s-side front tire off the shoulder. Now even with each other, the two shoulder-side tires bit down together. Sam gunned it, jerked the wheel to the right, and the Rover vaulted back onto the road.“Sharp right!” Remi called, pointing at a gap in the foliage off the shoulder.

Sam reacted instantly, braking hard. The Rover shuddered to a stop. Sam switched into reverse, backed up ten feet, switched back to drive and turned into the gap. Shadows engulfed them. Foliage scraped the car’s sides. He eased forward a few feet until the bumper tapped a wooden cattle gate.Remi climbed over the center console into the backseat and poked her head up so she could see out the side window.

Sam asked, “Are we off the road?”

“Barely. He should be along anytime now.” Thirty seconds later: “There he goes.” She turned around in the seat, slumped back, and exhaled. “Can we sit here for a-”

From down the main road came the shrieking of brakes, then silence.

Sam and Remi froze.

In the distance an engine revved and tires squealed.

Sam groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Buckle up, Remi.”

THE ROAD, while in fact blacktop, was narrow and winding, with no centerline and with ragged shoulders. With the Range Rover at top speed, they gained a half mile before they heard the Passat skid into the turn behind them. As they rounded the next corner a sign flashed past.Remi caught it: “Narrow bridge ahead.”

Sam gunned the engine, eating up the straightaway before the bridge. On either side, the jungle seemed to close in around them. The green tips of branches lashed the side windows. Through the windshield, the bridge appeared.“They call that a bridge?” Remi called.

Spanning a narrow gorge, the bridge was anchored to each bank by a pair of steel cables, but there were neither center stanchions nor support pylons. Fence-post-and-rope handrails lined each side. The bridge’s surface was little more than parallel twelve-inch planks with nothing but air and the occasional crossbeam between them.

Fifty yards from the structure, Sam slammed on the brakes. He and Remi glanced out the side windows; there was nothing. No breaks in the foliage, no turnoffs. Nowhere to hide. Beside them, a sign read, in French: SINGLE VEHICLE CROSSING ONLY. BRIDGE SPEED LIMIT-6 KPH. Essentially, a walking pace.Sam looked at Remi, who forced a smile. “Like a Band-Aid,” she said.

“Don’t think, just do it.”

“Right.”

Sam aligned the Rover’s wheels with the bridge’s planks, then stepped on the accelerator. The Rover rolled forward.

Behind them came the sound of tires squealing. Remi turned in her seat and saw the Passat skid around the corner, fishtail slightly, then straighten out.

“Ten to one he was counting on this bridge.”

“No bet,” Sam replied, fingers white on the steering wheel.

The Rover’s front tires thumped over the bridge’s first crossbeam and onto the planks. The wood groaned and creaked. The Rover’s back tires crossed over.

“Point of no return,” Sam said. “Is he slowing down?”

Still turned in her seat, Remi said, “No . . . Okay, he is. He’s not stopping, though.”

Sam depressed the accelerator. The speedometer needle rose past twelve kph.

Remi rolled down her window, stuck her head out, and looked down.

Sam called, “Do I want to know?”

“It’s about a fifty-foot drop into a river.”

“A lazy river, right?”

“Whitewater. Class 4 at least.” “Okay, sunshine, enough narrative.”

Remi pulled her head back inside and took another look through the rear window. “He’s almost on the bridge. Clearly, the sign doesn’t worry him.”

“Let’s hope he knows more than we do.”

They crossed the halfway point.

A moment later they felt the Range Rover dip slightly. Now double loaded, the bridge began undulating like a jump rope being flicked vertically at both ends. While the movement was but inches, the differing weights and positions of the vehicles began to feed upon each other.“Interference wave,” Sam muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Physics. When two waves of disparate amplitude combine-”

“Bad things happen,” Remi finished. “I get it.”

The Range Rover was rising and falling erratically now, six inches in each direction, Sam estimated. Remi felt her stomach rise into her throat.

“Do we happen to have any seasickness pills?”

“Sorry, my dear. We’re almost there.”

The bridge’s opposite side loomed before the windshield. Twenty feet . . . ten. Sam set his jaw, waited for the Rover to begin its downward plunge, then goosed the accelerator. The speedometer shot past twenty-five kph. The Rover bumped over the last crossbeam and onto solid ground.Remi glanced out the rear window. Her eyes went wide. “Sam . . .”

He turned. Without the Rover’s compensatory weight, the police Passat was absorbing all the motion. The bridge lurched upward, then dropped suddenly, leaving the car suspended for a split second. It was just enough. The Passat dropped but landed slightly off line. The driver’s-side front tire dropped into the center gap. With a gunshotlike crack, the nearest crossbeam gave way. The Passat tipped sideways onto the driver’s door and slipped farther into the rift. The forward third of the car, including the engine compartment, was now dangling in space.Remi murmured, “Oh, God . . .”

On impulse, Sam opened his door and got out.

“Sam! What are you doing?”

“For all we know, he’s just a cop doing what he was ordered.”

“Or he’ll happily shoot you when you walk up to his car.”

Sam shrugged, then walked back and opened the Rover’s tailgate. He rummaged through his pack and found what he was looking for: a fifty-foot coil of quarter-inch utility paracord. Careful to stay on the Passat’s “up side,” he walked down the plank until he was even with the passenger-side door. Below him, the river rushed past, frothing and sending up plumes of spray. He crouched down and examined the chassis; the situation was more precarious than he’d anticipated. The only thing keeping the Passat from falling was the driver’s-side rear tire, which was wedged between a plank and a crossbeam.Sam called, “Do you speak English?”