Текст книги "Blue Gold"
Автор книги: Clive Cussler
Соавторы: Clive Cussler
Жанр:
Научная фантастика
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
Chapter 14
The scene was so awe inspiring in its terrible beauty that Trout almost forgot the predicament he and Gamay were in. Paul sat on a rocky ledge about twenty feet above the lake, long legs dangling down, swiveling his head back and forth to take in the whole panoramic sweep. He had to strain his neck to see the tops of the falls. Multiple rainbows arced over the five cascades as the sun caught the droplets of water in the twisting vapor cloud that rose for hundreds of feet. The roar was like that of a hundred distant loco motives at full steam. Trout wasn't a religious man, but if anything was the Hand of God, he was looking at it.
A groan ended his reverie. "What are you doing?" Gamay said with a yawn. She was lying nearby in the shade of a tree.
"Thinking what a great place this would be to build a hotel."
"Ugh," Gamay said with a scowl. She sat up and wiped the sweat from her face. "Make sure you have air conditioning."
It had rained briefly an hour before, and the sun returned with a vengeance. Their perch was well shaded by trees and bushes, and they slept for a time, but there was no way to escape the suffocating humidity. Paul was the first to awake.
"I'll get you some water," Paul said. He fashioned a palm leaf into a cup, climbed down to the lake, and scooped up water in the makeshift container. He spilled half the contents bringing it to Gamay, who was trying to pick blades of grass from her ratty looking hair. She guzzled the water, her eyes closed in bliss, then passed what was left to Paul.
"Thanks," she said with a smile. "That was refreshing. I hope you won't mind if I take a dip in our water supply." She climbed down to the lake, plunged in, and swam out several strokes.
Paul was thinking of joining Gamay after he had quenched his thirst, when a movement near the river outlet caught his eye. He called out a warning, but Gamay couldn't hear him because of the rumble of the falls. He climbed down, half falling, to the water's edge and dove in. He swam out to Gamay, who was peacefully floating on her back, and grabbed her by her T-shirt.
Gamay was startled at first, then she laughed. "Hey, this is no time to get playful."
"Hush," he said. "Get back to shore. Hurry."
The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. Without a further word Gamay swam quickly to shore with Paul right behind her. She started to climb onto the ledge. Paul pulled her down into a bush. He held his finger to his lips and pointed toward the lake.
Gamay squinted through the leaves and tensed as the sun glinted off wet paddles and she saw flashes of blue and white. Chulo. Paul had seen the four canoes emerge from the river into the lake. They would have run right into Gamay. The canoes were moving in single file. Each canoe held three Indians. Two were paddling, and the other was riding shotgun, his bow resting across his lap. They seemed intent on where they were going and unaware that they were being watched.
The Indians passed within a few yards of the hiding place, so close the beads of sweat on their rippling muscles were clearly visible. They moved silently across the lake until foggy tendrils enveloped them. An instant later they disappeared into the vapor cloud.
"That was some vanishing act," Paul said, puffing his cheeks out.
"Now we know why they're called the People of the Mist," Gamay said.
Using his six-foot-eight height to good advantage, Paul stood cautiously and made sure there were no stragglers. "All clear," he said. "We'd better think of getting out of here. I still have the Swiss Army knife. Maybe we could fashion a raft with logs and vines and float our way out."
Gamay was staring toward the mists. "I have a better idea." She paused. "It may be a little risky."
'A little risky?" Paul chuckled. "Don't forget I'm well acquainted with the way your mind works. You're about to suggest that we follow those guys and steal a canoe."
"Why not? Look, this is their home turf, so they won't expect it. With all due respect for your talents with a Swiss Army knife, I can't see us fashioning a boat that will carry the two of us God knows how many miles downriver without sinking or running into more of those characters. It was tough enough traveling in an airboat. They can't paddle those canoes all day. They must pull them up somewhere on shore. We just find them, wait until dark, and slip one away. They'll never even miss it, I bet."
Amusement crept into Paul's large hazel eyes. "Do I detect a hint of scientific curiosity in your proposal?"
"Okay, I admit there's more here than simply a matter of survival. Don't tell me you haven't wondered about this high-tech tribe and the talk of a white goddess."
"I was wondering if they have any food," Paul said, patting his stomach. He chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass "Seriously, we're in something of a pickle and really don't have many choices. We don't know where we are and aren't sure how to get out of here. We have no supplies. As you pointed out, this is their territory. I suggest that we reconnoiter. We're strangers in a strange land. We go slow, and if the situation looks too dangerous, we get out in a hurry. "
"Agreed," Gamay said. "Now, as for food, I'm fresh out of granola bars. I've been watching the birds eating the berries on that bush. I don't see any dead birds, so they're probably not poison."
"Berries it is," Paul said. "They can't be that bad."
Trout was wrong. The berries were so bitter it was impossible to eat even one without puckering up. With empty stomachs, the Trouts struck off along the shore of the lake. At one point where the mud looked like quicksand, they climbed to higher ground and stumbled onto a footpath. The trail was overgrown and looked as if it hadn't seen any recent use. Still, they proceeded cautiously, ready to dive into the bushes if they encountered anyone.
They trekked along the path for about a mile until they came to a place where mists from the lake rolled into the forest like vapor from a fog machine. The leafy growth was as wet as if it had been pelted by a rain shower, and the roar of the falls was like the beating of a thousand kettledrums. They were aware that the same noise that muffled their movement could drown out the approach of a marching army. 'The air became chilly and so damp that they put their hands over their noses so they wouldn't gag. The visibility was only a few feet, and they kept their heads low so their eyes could pick out the path.
Then, suddenly, they were out of the forest. If they were expecting to burst out on a beautiful valley like wayfarers in Shangri-la, they were disappointed. The forest was no different on the other side of the mists. The path no longer led along the lake but instead veered off along a tributary that the canoes must have followed.
After a few minutes Gamay stopped and shook her head. "Notice anything strange about this little river?"
Paul walked over to the edge of the banking. "Yes, it's much too straight to be natural. It looks as if someone has taken an existing stream and marsh and cleared them out with shovel and pick."
"My thoughts exactly." Gamay started walking again. "As I said, the Chulo are most fascinating."
They plodded ahead for several hours. They had fashioned hats from palm leaves and stopped frequently to quench their thirst from the river. At one point they waited out a shower. They became more tense and watchful as the path widened, and they began to see the imprints of a bare foot in the soft, dark earth.
After a short discussion, they decided to follow the river for a while longer, then hide in the forest until dark. They were dog tired and needed to replenish their energy. As they plodded along they encountered a path coming in from the forest to their right. It was made of thousands of flat stones and reminded Gamay of the Maya or Inca roads. It was as good as anything she had seen on the Appian Way. Their curiosity got the best of them, and they followed the paved path for five more minutes. They were drawn on even farther by a gleam through the trees.
The walkway widened into a perfectly circular clearing about fifty feet in diameter and also surfaced entirely with stones. In the center of the clearing was a large object.
"I'll be damned," they said in unison.
The jet plane was in two sections. The front was intact, but the passenger cabin was virtually gone. The tail section was in fair shape and had been moved directly behind the cockpit, giving the aircraft a short, stubby look. The paint was old and faded and not overgrown by vines or lichen as might be expected.
They peered through the cracked cockpit windows, expecting to see skeletons. The seats were empty. Directly in front of the cockpit was a shallow pit holding the blackened ashes of fires and charred bones of small animals. Carved totems as tall and thick as a man ringed the stone circle. The figures adorning each post were different. Carved in dark wood at the top of each pole was a winged woman with her hands cupped in front of her. It was the same figure carved onto the medallion they had found on the dead Indian.
"It looks like some sort of shrine," Gamay whispered. She went over to the ash pit. "This must be where they burned sacrifices. Mostly bones from small animals."
"That's certainly reassuring," Paul said. He looked up at the sun, then checked his watch. "They've got the plane positioned so that it acts like a sundial. It reminds me of the layout at Stonehenge, with the concentric rings that acted as a celestial calendar."
Gamay put her hand on the plane's nose. "Does this blue and-white color scheme seem familiar to you?"
"What do you know? The Chulo national colors."
Gamay's eyes widened as she looked past Paul, who had his back to the forest.
"That's not the only thing around here that's blue and white."
Paul turned and saw about twenty Chulo Indians emerge from the trees, their faces and bodies painted the colors of sky and bone. He cursed himself for allowing the plane's discovery to push caution aside. As silently as the ghosts they were reputed to be, the Indians surrounded them. There was no way to run. Paul and Gamay were completely boxed in.
The Indians advanced with their spears held high, but then they did a peculiar thing. They opened the circle. One Indian indicated with his spear that they were to go through the opening. The Trouts glanced at each other for mutual reassurance, then, with the silent Indians flanking them like a military honor guard, they marched from the shrine and followed the path along the river.
The path widened into a road that took them to a stockade palisade. They made their way toward a gate wide enough to drive a truck through. From a distance they had seen on either side of the gate tall wooden staffs that had knobs on the top like flagpoles. As they neared the entrance Gamay squeezed her husband's hand even tighter.
"Paul, look," she said.
He followed her gaze. "Oh, hell."
The knobs were in fact human heads. Their faces had been baked brown like apples in the sun, and the birds and insects had been making inroads, but it was still possible to pick out Dieter's features. He wasn't smiling. Neither was Arnaud or his taciturn assistant, Carlo. The fourth head belonged to their Indian henchman. Trout recognized him by the New York Yankees baseball cap.
Then they were through the gates, past the grisly decorations. Behind the fence were several dozen long thatched huts clustered along the river. No women or children were visible. Their guards had lowered their spears and unstrung their arrows and were using the presence of their bodies to keep the Trouts from trying anything foolish.
Paul said, "Look at that water wheel. We have them like that in New England."
Water had been diverted from the river and was flowing through wooden chutes to turn a wheel. They didn't get the chance for a closer look. Their guards directed them toward a structure at the center of the settlement. It was four times bigger than any of the surrounding huts, and the walls were made of putty-colored clay rather than saplings. They stopped in front of a portal that looked like a large, gaping mouth. Hung over the entrance was the bladed fan from a jet engine. The Indians closed ranks behind them, put their weapons aside, and kneeled with their noses touching the earth.
"Now what?" Gamay said with astonishment at the sudden submissiveness of the fierce Indians.
"I wouldn't advise running for it. We wouldn't get ten feet before they nailed us. My guess is they want us to go in. After you, madame."
"We'll go in together."
They walked hand-in-hand through the doorway into the dim interior. They passed through two smaller rooms, then into a large space. At the far end of the hut, visible in a shaft of light coming through a hole cut in the roof, was a seated figure. The figure raised its arm and beckoned for them to approach. They moved ahead slowly. The floor was made of wood, not dirt like the huts they had been in before.
The figure sat on a throne made of what looked like an airplane seat. With the exception of two tanned and shapely legs, most of the body was hidden behind a blue-and-white oval mask that could have come out of a nightmare. It was painted with huge eyes and a wide mouth with sharp-pointed shark's teeth.
The Trouts stood nervously in front of the bizarre figure, not knowing what to do. Then two hands came from behind the mask and lifted it off.
"Whew, this thing is hot," the beautiful woman behind the ugly mask said in English. She set the mask aside, cocked her head at Paul, then at Gamay.
"The Drs. Trout, I presume?"
Gamay was the first to speak through their astonishment. "How do you know our names?"
"We white goddesses see all and know all." She laughed when she saw the puzzlement deepen even more. "I'm a poor host, teasing my guests."
She smiled and clapped her hands lightly. The Trouts were in for another surprise. The beaded curtains behind the throne parted with a rustle, and Dieter's wife, Tessa, stepped out.
Chapter 15
The law office of Francis Xavier Hanley was on the twelfth floor of a blue glass tower that looked out onto San Diego Harbor. Austin and Zavala stepped from the elevator into the office lobby and gave the attractive young receptionist their names. She punched a button on her inter com and after a murmured conversation smiled brightly and told them to go right in. A ruddy-faced man with the body of a night club bouncer gone to flab greeted them at the door. He introduced himself as Hanley and ushered them to a pair of Empire-style chairs. Settling his bulk behind a large mahogany desk, he leaned back in his plush swivel chair, tented his fingertips, and contemplated the two men like a wolf drooling over a pair of staked goats.
After crossing back from Tijuana, Austin had called Hanley's office and asked for an appointment. He spread his story on as thick as peanut butter, saying he and his partner "had made a few mil" in the market and wanted a place to spend it. They got an immediate meeting. The predatory gleam in the lawyer's pale green eyes suggested that the bait had done its job well. He looked from one man to the other. "I believe in getting right down to business," he purred. "You said on the phone that you're interested in foreign investment."
"We're primarily interested in Mexico," Zavala explained.
The attorney wore an expensive sharkskin gray suit and had enough gold and diamonds on his fleshy hands to sink the Titanic. All the tailors in the world couldn't hide the brawler's body, and no amount of jewelry could have obscured the coarse ness ingrained in his every word and move. The NUMA men were dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and windbreakers. It was a studied casualness. In California, the only ones who look like millionaires are those who aren't.
Hanley took in Zavala's Latin American looks. "You've come to the right place," he said expansively. He smiled in an attempt to exert charm, but the V-shaped mouth in the fleshy face made him look like a fat vulture. "Did you have a specific area in mind?"
"We like tortillas," Austin said with a straight face.
A look of incomprehension appeared on Hanley's florid features. "Pardon me," he said, not certain he had heard correctly.
"You know, tortillas," Austin said, making a circular motion with his finger. "We hear it's a fast-growing business."
Recovering nicely, Hanley replied, "And so it is. A booming sector in the expanding food services area."
Austin had the feeling that the answer would have been the same had they told Hanley they were interested in making mud pies. He and Zavala had decided to use the direct approach that had worked so well in drawing a strong reaction from Pedralez.
Zavala smiled and said, "We've been hearing about a tortilla plant in Baja California, outside Ensenada, that might be for sale real cheap."
Hanley's watery eyes narrowed under the prominent brow ridge. "Where'd you hear that?" he growled.
"Around." The corners of Zavala's lips turned up in a mysterious smile.
"Sorry, gentlemen, I'm not familiar with any Baja tortilla plant."
Zavala turned to Austin. "He says he's not familiar with that one."
Austin shrugged. "We're surprised at your answer. Enrico Pedralez says you're very familiar with the property. He gave us your name and said you arranged the deal for him." Hanley's defenses went on full alert at the mention of the Mexican mob boss. He was uncertain how accountable he had to be to these two strangers. He fast-forwarded through the categories of likely threats: police, IRS, state bureaucrats. These men didn't fit into any pigeonhole. He decided to take the offensive.
"May I see some identification from you gentlemen?"
"That won't be necessary," Austin said.
"In that case, if you're not out of my office in two seconds, I'll throw you out myself."
Austin made no move to rise. "You could try," he said with an icy coldness, "but I wouldn't recommend it. I wouldn't bother calling in your Mexican pals, either."
Seeing that intimidation wasn't going to work, the lawyer reached for the phone. "I'm calling the police."
"Why don't you call the bar association while you're at it?" Austin said. "I'm sure they'd like to hear how one of their members set up a deal with a notorious Mexican mafioso. That framed license on your wall won't be worth the paper it's printed on."
The hand retreated, and Hanley stared across the desk. "Who are you gentlemen?" He practically spat out the last word.
"A couple of people who want to know more about that plant in the Baja," Austin said.
Hanley was having a hard time trying to figure out this pair. With their athletic builds and sun-burnished faces they looked like a couple of beach bums, but he detected a hard edge under their genial image.
"Even if you had credible authority I couldn't help you," he said. "All discussions on that matter are covered by lawyer-client privilege."
"That's true," Austin said agreeably. "It is also true that you could go to jail for making a dirty deal with a known criminal."
Hanley's mouth widened in an insincere smile. "Okay, you win," he said. "I'll tell you what I can. But let's compromise. Tell me why you are interested in this property. It would be the fair thing to do."
"True," Austin said, "but this is an unfair world." His coral green eyes bored into Hanley's face. "I'll put your mind at ease. Your slimy dealings are not our concern. Once you tell us who hired you for the Baja job, chances are you'll never see us again."
Hanley nodded and plucked a cigar from a humidor without offering his guests one. He lit up and puffed smoke in their direction. "I was contacted about two years ago by a broker from Sacramento. He had heard about my, ah, connections, south of the border and thought I would be the perfect go-between for a highly lucrative deal with no risk and little work."
"An offer you couldn't refuse."
"Of course. But I was cautious. Everyone in California has a get-rich scheme. He knew about my ties to Enrico. So I had to make sure this guy wasn't working in an official capacity. I had a private detective check him out. He was legit."
Austin smiled faintly at the irony of a crooked lawyer worrying about honesty. "What did he hire you to do?"
"The people he represented wanted to find land in the Baja. It had to be remote and on the coast. Then he wanted me to handle the paperwork and red tape involved in starting a business in Mexico."
"Baja Tortillas."
"Yes. He wanted a Mexican to hold the actual ownership for the plant. He said it would be easier that way. It would be a turnkey operation. He supplied the plant specifications and brought in a construction crew. His clients would require access to the plant after it was built, but they would not interfere in the operation. They said Enrico could keep half the profits, and the plant would be his free and clear after five years."
"Did you ever wonder why anyone would be so generous with what must have been a considerable investment?"
"I am paid substantially because I don't ask questions like that."
"Seems your friends wanted a cover operation," Zavala said.
"That certainly crossed my mind. The Japanese ran into all sorts of flak when they tried to build a salt-producing plant
along the coast. A bunch of whale huggers made a big stink with the Mexican government. I assumed the man's clients saw what had happened with the Japanese and didn't want to go through the same headaches." "Who was this broker?"
"His name was Jones. Oh yes, that's his real name," Hanley added when he saw the skeptical glances. "He's a matchmaker who specializes in buying and selling businesses."
"Who was he representing?"
"He never told me."
Austin leaned forward onto Hanley's desk. "Don't jerk us around, Mr. Hanley. You're a careful man. You would have had your private detective poke into this guy."
Hanley shrugged. "Why deny it? The clients tried to hide their identity behind a web of corporate paper."
"You said tried. Who are they?"
"I only got as far as an outfit called the Mulholland Group. It's a closed corporation with ties to companies involved in large-scale hydraulic projects."
"What else?"
"That's all I know." Hanley checked his Cartier wrist watch. "If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with a real client."
"We want the broker's address and phone number."
"It won't do you any good. He died a few weeks ago. His car went off a mountain road."
Austin had been gazing through the floor-to-ceiling window behind Hanley at a helicopter going back and forth across the harbor. It was moving closer with each pass. At the mention of unusual death, he brought his full attention back to Hanley.
"We'd like whatever information you have on him anyway. And your whole file as well."
Hanley frowned. He thought he was through with this annoying pair. "I can't give you the original. I'll have it copied. It might take a couple of hours."
"That would be fine. We'11 be back for it in two hours."
Hanley's frown deepened. Then he smiled again, rose from his desk, and showed them to the door.
Back in the elevator, Austin said, "We'll call Hiram Yaeger. Hanley's bound to censor the stuff he gives us, so we might want to conduct our own investigation into this Mulholland Group." Hiram Yaeger was NUMA's computer whiz. The tenth-floor computer complex he called Max was plugged into a vast data base of oceanic knowledge from every source in the world. Max routinely hacked into outside databases.
They stepped out of the building lobby into the Southern California sun. As Zavala walked to the curb to hail a cab there was a loud whup-whup sound from directly overhead. A green helicopter hovered over the street, about a hundred feet from the glass face of the building. Like the other pedestrians they stared at the aircraft with curiosity. Then recognition flashed in Austin's mind.
He grabbed Zavala's arm. "We've got to go back."
Zavala glanced at the helicopter and bolted for the revolving door behind Austin.
They dashed into an open elevator and punched the button for the lawyer's floor. Halfway up there was a dull thud, and the elevator's sides rattled in the shaft. Austin hit the stop button for the floor below Hanley's office. They ran past startled office workers and raced up the stairway to the next level.
Acrid black smoke filled the stairwell. Austin felt the door to the law-office floor. Unable to detect heat that would indicate a fierce blaze on the other side, he opened the door a crack. More smoke poured out. They opened the door wide enough to pass through, got down on their hands and knees, and crawled through the choking fumes into the receptionist's area. The sprinkler system had been set off, and they were drenched under a cooling spray. The receptionist lay on the rug next to her desk.
"What about Hanley?" Joe shouted. Smoke was billowing from the office door.
"Don't bother. He's gone."
They dragged the receptionist to the stairwell and got her
limp body down to the floor below. She came around after a few minutes of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Soon firemen pounded onto the floor, and they turned her over to an EMT. They walked down rather than take an elevator where they would be stuck if the power went off. More firemen poured into the lobby. The police had arrived and were evacuating the building. They joined the crowd milling around outside, but seeing there was nothing they could do, they walked a couple of blocks and hailed a cab.
The driver, a Senegalese from the looks of his ID card, glanced at their soot-covered faces. "You in there? Man, I just heard over the radio. Some kind of explosion."
Zavala looked out the back window at the confusion outside the building where police were stopping traffic and setting up a fire line.
Zavala wiped the soot from his cheek. "How did you know that was going to happen?"
"I didn't. But I noticed the helicopter going back and forth across the harbor when we were talking to Hanley."
"I saw it, too, but didn't pay much attention. I figured it was a traffic chopper."
"I had the same reaction at first. Then we saw it up close, and something clicked. The same chopper or one very much like it did a fly-by after the explosion at the tortilla plant."
"I remember. Dark green. It buzzed the cove, then flew off." Zavala pondered the implication. "Whoever owned that chopper wanted Hanley dead in a bad way."
"Hanley ran with a pretty rough crowd."
"You think it was Enrico?"
"It's possible. He knew we would talk to Hanley. I was surprised he didn't call Hanley to warn him we were coming."
"I've been thinking about Mr. Jones, the guy who brokered the deal," Zavala said thoughtfully. "Maybe his mouth was shut for him as well."
"It would fit in with the Enrico theory until something better comes along," Austin said.
Something better did come along back at the hotel. While Austin went in to clean up and change, Zavala flipped to the TV news. The camera showed shots of smoke belching from the office and fire trucks outside. The fire department spokesman said a number of people were treated for smoke inhalation, but there was apparently only one death. The name would be released pending notice of next of kin. Cause of the explosion was un known. The report ended, and Zavala was about to turn the TV off when a familiar face appeared on the screen.
"Kurt, you've got to see this," he called.
Austin emerged in time to hear the blow-dried announcer give his report.
"This just in. Alleged Mexican mafia drug figure Enrico Pe dralez was killed today when his car exploded in Tijuana. Two men who may have been bodyguards also died in the explosion."
The announcer went on to read the Mexican's law-breaking laundry list.
"Looks like our green chopper people don't like loose ends," Austin observed.
The phone rang, and Zavala picked it up. He listened for a moment, muttered "You're welcome," and replaced the phone in its cradle. "That was FBI Agent Miguel Gomez," he said.
"What did he want?"
Zavala's mouth puckered in a wry smile. "He just wanted to say thanks for making his job a little easier."