Текст книги "Blue Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

"Yes, we know they have the contracts in place to move glacier water from Alaska, but we've crunched the numbers. There are far too many tankers for the existing market, even if you add China."

"It takes a while to build a ship. Maybe they want to be ready. They'll mothball the ships until the time is ripe."

"That's the strange thing. These ships aren't being moth balled. Each tanker has a captain and a crew. They're just sitting in Alaskan waters as if they're waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"That's what we would like to know."

"Something's going on," Zavala murmured.

"My reporter's nose for news says the same thing."

Zavala got a cold feeling as if one of those slimy tentacles they talked about had tapped him on the shoulder. He recalled the conversation he had had with Austin about the unseen fears that sometimes come beneath the sea. As usual, Kurt's intuition was on the mark. Zavala's own instincts were telling him that a big, hungry something lay hidden in the blue shadows, watching and waiting. And its name was Gogstad.

Chapter 23

CIA director Erwin LeGrand beamed proudly as his fourteen-year-old daughter, Katherine, trotted over on the back of her chestnut gelding. She slipped out of the saddle and presented her father with the trophy for first place, English style.

"This is for your office, Dad," she said with excitement in her cornflower-blue eyes. "It's for being the best father in the world. You're the one who bought me Val and paid for all those expensive riding lessons."

LeGrand took the trophy and put his arm around his daughter's shoulders, thinking how much she looked like her mother. "Thank you, Katie, but I wasn't the one who worked so hard to show Valiant who's boss." He smiled. "I'll only take it on the condition that it's on loan. As soon as I've bragged to everyone at the agency, it's going back in your trophy case with the others."

LeGrand's pride was mixed with guilt. True, he had sup ported his daughter's love for riding financially, but this was the first event he had attended in years. The country club photographer came over, and LeGrand posed with his daughter and her horse, wishing as he did that his wife were still alive to make the picture complete.

Katie led Val back to the stable, and LeGrand ambled across the field, chatting with his assistant, a plain but extremely intelligent woman named Hester Leonard. LeGrand was sometimes likened in press reports to a beardless Lincoln, a comparison based on his reputation for honesty and his resemblance to the sixteenth president. He was tall and homely, but there was no mistaking the character etched into his large features. He had earned a reputation for integrity in running the world's largest intelligence-gathering organization, and in another age with no TV and sound bites, he would have been considered seriously as a candidate for president.

Leonard's cell phone buzzed, and she put it to her ear. "Sir," she said hesitantly, "call for you from Langley."

LeGrand scowled, muttering under his breath about no peace for the wicked. He made no motion to take the phone. "Didn't I ask that I not be disturbed for two hours while I was in McLean unless it was extremely urgent?"

"It's John Rowland, and he says it is of utmost importance."

"Rowland? Well, in that case. . . " He took the phone and stuck it in his ear. "Hello, John," he said, frown changing to a smile. "No apology needed. You're just in time to hear the good news. Katie won first place in English riding at the country club…. Thank you. Now, what's so important that it interrupts possibly the most important moment of Katie's life?"

LeGrand's brow furrowed. "No, I've never heard of it . . . yes, of course . . . wait for me in my office."

He handed the phone to his aide, looked at the trophy, and shook his head. "Tell the car to come around and pick me up immediately at the stable. We've got to get back to Langley immediately. Then put a call in to my office and tell them to render any assistance that John Rowland asks for. I've got to say my good-byes and make amends. Hell, this will probably cost me another horse." He loped off to offer his apologies to his daughter.

Twenty minutes later the black limo squealed to a halt in front of CIA headquarters. LeGrand got out, striding through the lobby on his long legs. An assistant met him inside the door. He snatched the folder from his aide's hand and scanned the material in the elevator. Moments later he stepped into his office. John Rowland was waiting with a nervous young man he introduced as a fellow analyst named Browning.

Rowland and the director shook hands like the old friends they were. Years before, both were at the same level in the agency. But LeGrand had political ambition and the drive to climb to the top of the ladder. Rowland was content to stay in his post where he was known as a mentor for the young analysts coming through the ranks. LeGrand put unquestioning faith in Rowland, who on more than one occasion had saved his boss from stepping into a cow flap.

"I just read the material you got off the database. What's your take on it?"

Rowland lost no time outlining his analysis.

"This thing can't be stopped?" LeGrand said.

"The protocol has been activated. The sanction will be carried out to the end."

"Damn! Heads are going to roll when I'm through. Who's the target?"

Rowland handed him a sheet of paper. LeGrand read the name on it, and the color drained from his face.

"Call the Secret Service. Tell them we've learned of an assassination plot against the speaker of the House. He needs protection immediately. Dear God," he said. "Can anyone tell me how something like this happens?"

"We're going to have to do some digging to get all the de tails," Rowland said. "We only know that the protocol was triggered by simultaneous queries to the intelligence-gathering community that came from the National Underwater amp; Marine Agency."

"NUMA?" The air over LeGrand's head crackled blue as he gave an impressive demonstration of his renowned skill for inventive expletive. He slammed his big hand down on the desk with enough force to topple the pen from its holder and yelled at the nearest assistant. "Get James Sandecker on the phone."

Chapter 24

"Were about twenty minutes from Albany," Buzz Martin said.

Austin looked out the window of Martin's two-engine Piper Seneca. The visibility was as unlimited as when they had left Baltimore earlier that afternoon. Austin could practically read the names on the boats dotting the upper reaches of the Hudson River.

"Thanks again for the lift. My partner Joe Zavala usually chauffeurs me around on these junkets, but he's still in California."

Martin gave Austin a thumbs-up sign. "Hell, I'm the one who should be thanking you. I'm sure you could have got up here on your own."

"Probably, but my motives are not unselfish. I need you to identify your father."

Martin glanced off at the Catskill Mountains to the west. "I wonder if I'll even recognize him after all these years. It's been a long time. He could have changed a lot." A cloud passed over his sunny features. "Damn, ever since you called and asked me to fly you up here, I've been trying to figure out what I'm going to say to him. I don't know whether to hug him or hit the old bastard."

"You might shake his hand for starters. Taking a swing at your long-lost father is no way to start a family reunion."

Martin chuckled. "Yeah, you're right. But I can't stop being angry with him. I want him to tell me why he left my mother and me and why he stayed hidden all these years, making us think he was dead. Good thing my mother is gone. She was an old-fashioned girl, and it would have killed her to think she had married while her first husband was still alive. Hell," he said with a catch in his voice, "I just hope I don't start bawling."

He picked up the microphone and called the Albany control tower for landing instructions. Within minutes they were on the ground.

The car rental counter had no lines, and before long they were driving out of the city in a four-wheel-drive Pathfinder. Austin headed southwest on Route 88 toward Binghamton through rolling hills and small farms. About an hour from Albany he left the main highway and drove north to Cooperstown, an idyllic village whose neat main street looked like a set from a Frank Capra movie. From Cooperstown they headed west on a winding two-lane country road. This was James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking country, and with a little imagination Austin could picture Hawkeye skulking through the wooded valleys with his Indian companions. Towns and houses grew even farther apart. In this part of the world the cows outnumbered the people.

Even with a map it was hard to find the place they were looking for. Austin stopped at a gas station-general store, and Buzz went in for directions. When he came out he was clearly excited.

"The old-timer in there says he's known Bucky Martin for years. 'Nice fella. Pretty much keeps to himself.' Go up this road a half a mile and turn left. The farm is about five miles from there."

The road became narrow and bumpy, the tarmac almost an afterthought. The farms alternated with thick patches of woods, and they almost missed the turnoff. The only marker was an aluminum mailbox with no name or number on it. A dirt driveway, past the mailbox into the woods. They turned onto the driveway.

and passed through a copse of trees that shielded the house from the highway. Eventually the trees gave way to pastures where small herds of cows grazed. Finally, at least a half a mile from the road, they came upon the farmhouse.

The big two-story building was built in an era when three generations lived together to work a farm. The decorative windows and stained glass indicated that the owner had been successful enough to afford extra touches. A porch ran across the front. Behind the house was a red barn and silo. Next to the barn was a corral with two horses in it. A fairly new pickup truck was parked in the yard.

Austin swung into the circular driveway and parked in front of the house. No one came out to greet them. There was no curious face in the windows.

"Maybe you should let me go first," Austin suggested. "It might help if I do a little prep work before you meet face-to face."

"That's fine," Buzz said. "I'm losing courage fast."

Austin squeezed Martin's arm. "You'll be fine." He didn't know what he would have done in the man's place. He doubted he would have been as calm. "I'll check him out and break it to him gradually."

"I appreciate that," Martin said.

Austin left the car, went up to the front door, and knocked several times. No one answered. Nor was there a response when he twisted the knob of the old doorbell. He turned around and threw his hands apart so Martin could see. He descended the porch and walked behind the house to the barn. The only sound was the soft clucking of chickens and the occasional grunt from a rooting pig.

The barn door was open. He walked inside, thinking that barns smelled the same the world over, an unmistakable combination of manure, hay, and big animals. A horse snorted as he walked by its stall, maybe thinking he was bringing it sugar, but there was no sign of Martin. He called out a hello and when there was no response walked out the back door. The chickens under Wild Bill Donovan. I was what they'd call a hit man today. I pulled a few assignments after the war, then told them I wanted to retire. The boss said there was no way they could let me do that. I knew too much. So we worked out a deal. They'd keep me active for one more job. The only problem was, they didn't know when the order would be carried out. It could be five months or five years." He chuckled. "No one figured it would go on this long, especially me." Austin noticed that Martin had lost his folksy farm accent. "Who were you supposed to kill?"

"The government had this big secret they didn't want any one to know about. They devised a system so that if anyone started snooping and got too close, the protocol would be activated. Here's the real clever thing. They would make potential opposition come to me. They set me up here in the middle of nowhere. When you started poking around, it triggered a series of commands. One would tell you where I was. The last would tell me to carry out the original sanction against the speaker of the House. Seems he heard about the government's secret and was going to blow the whistle."

"This protocol you're talking about must be fifty years old The congressman you were supposed to kill has been dead for years."

"That doesn't matter," he said with a shake of his head. "I'm still under orders. Sad thing, that secret's so old it probably doesn't make a difference one way or the other." He lapsed back into his farm accent, and the blue eyes grew hard and cold. "Sure glad you came, son. I'm officially retired after this."

The gun came up. Austin braced himself for the deafening blast. He tensed his stomach muscles as if by sheer will he could prevent the slug from tearing into his rib cage. Had he time ~o think about it, he would have ruminated on the irony, after surviving countless near-fatal assignments, of dying at the hands of a half-deaf, near-blind, octogenarian assassin.

A figure suddenly materialized behind Martin. It was Buzz. The old man's sight was still keen enough for him to detect an

involuntary change in Austin's expression. He whirled around as Buzz cried out in surprise. "You're not my father!"

The old man's body had shielded the shotgun, but now Buzz's eyes dropped from Martin's face to the weapon in his arms. The farmer brought his gun up to his shoulder, but his reflexes were dulled by the years. Austin had to make a split second decision. He could put his head down and crash into the man's backside like an enraged bull. Not enough time, he decided

"Martin!" he yelled, at the same time yanking the pitchfork from the bale.

The farmer turned back to Austin, who whipped the pitchfork at him like a javelin. He was aiming for Martin's shooting side, but the old man stepped into the oncoming pitchfork and the tines perforated his heart and lungs. He cried out in pain, and the shotgun went off, barrel pointed toward the roof. The horse went crazy and tried to kick down its stall. The gun fell from Martin's fingers. His eyes rolled into his head, and he crumpled to the wooden floor.

Austin kicked the shotgun out of reach more out of habit than necessity. Buzz had been frozen with shock, but now he came over and knelt by the body. Austin turned it over so they could see the face.

Buzz studied the man's features for a moment and, to Austin's relief, softly said, "No, he's definitely not my father. He's too tall, to begin with. My father was stocky like me. And the face is all wrong. Who in God's name is he?"

"He called himself Martin, but that's not his real name. I don't know what it is."

"Why was he trying to kill you-I mean, both of us?"

"He didn't really know. He was like one of those trick bombs the Germans used to drop. They'd go off when the bomb squad tried to defuse them. By the way, I thought you were going to wait in the car."

"I tried, but I had to get out and walk. I went behind the house, didn't see anybody, so I came into the barn looking for you."

"I'm glad you did." Austin cocked his ear. "I think I hear something." He took a last look at the body. "Happy retirement, Bucky," he said, and walked toward the door.

Buzz followed him out into the yard as a black-and-white car with blue roof dome flashing burst from the woods and squealed to a stop in a cloud of dust. Printed in big letters on the car door was the word SHERIFF. Two men in blue uniforms got out. One was burly and young, and the other was slim and gray-haired. The younger man came over with his hand on his holster. His badge signified he was a deputy sheriff.

"Which one of you is Austin?" he said.

"That's me," Kurt said.

The deputy must have been prepared for an evasion because he didn't seem to know what to say next.

The older man gently pushed his deputy aside. "I'm Sheriff Hastings. Either one of you seen Bucky Martin?"

"He's in the barn," Austin said.

The deputy hustled into the barn, and when he came out a moment later his face was white.

"Jeezus," he said, fumbling for his sidearm, "Old Bucky is dead. Stuck with a pitchfork. Which one of you two did it?"

Hastings gestured for his deputy to calm down and call the county homicide team. "Could you tell me what's been going on,

Mr. Austin?"

"Martin tried to kill us with that shotgun next to the body. T had to kill him. I was trying to slow him down, but that's not the way it worked out."

"Thanks, but I mean what's real~7y going on with this whole thing, me getting calls from Washington and all."

"Washington?"

"You bet. First the governor's office calls and tells me to hold, then they patch through this maniac Admiral Sandecker He says his man Austin is in danger and I'd better get out to Martin's place or there will be a killing. When I asked what makes him think somebody's going to be killed, he promises to rip me a new belly button if I don't stop asking dumb questions and get on my way." He grinned. "Guess he was right." He turned to Buzz. "What's your name?" "Buzz Martin."

The sheriff blinked in surprise. 'Any relation to the de ceased?"

Austin and Martin looked at each other, not sure how to answer the question.

Finally Austin shook his head and said, "Hope you've got time, sheriff, because that's a long, long story."

Chapter 25

The drums had been beating steadily for an hour. The sound was cadenced at first, coming from a lone drum at the same throbbing tempo as a human heartbeat. Then other drums had joined in. The hollow thumping accelerated in pace, and a monotonous chanting could be heard in the background. Francesca paced back and forth in the throne room like a caged lion, her hands clasped behind her, head bent low in thought. The Trouts sat next to the throne, waiting patiently for Francesca to speak. Tessa had pulled her vanishing act again.

Something caused a commotion at the entrance. Seconds later Francesca's two handmaidens rushed into the throne room, threw themselves on their knees, and babbled excitedly. Calming the young Indians with her soft voice, Francesca gently lifted them to their feet and brushed their disheveled hair away from their faces. She listened to the women speak in turn, then took two bracelets made of airplane parts and slipped them onto their wrists. She kissed her attendants on the tops of their heads and sent them on their way.

Turning to the Trouts, Francesca said, "Events are moving faster than I anticipated. The women say Alaric has talked the tribe into moving against us."

Gamay frowned. "I thought they wouldn't enter your palace."

"I've always said Alaric was intelligent. He sent my servants

to tell me his plans, evidently to exert psychological pressure. The drums are his work." She pointed to the ceiling. "The palace walls are clay, but the roof is made of dry grass. They will light the place on fire. He says the true gods will rise from the ashes. If we run outside to escape the flames it will prove that we're the frauds he says we are, and they will cut us down." "Would they really harm their queen?" Gamay asked.

"It wouldn't be the first time royalty has fallen fatally out of favor. Have you forgotten Mary Queen of Scots or Anne Boleyn?"

"I get your point," Gamay said. "What do we do now?"

"We escape. Are you ready?"

"Since all we have are the clothes on our backs, we're ready when you are," Paul said. "But how are we going to get past that unruly crowd out there?"

"I still have a few white goddess tricks up my sleeve. Ah, good, Tessa is back." The Indian woman had materialized as silently as a shadow. She spoke a few words in her native language to Francesca, who answered with a nod. Tessa took one of the torches flanking the throne.

Francesca said, "Dr. Paul, if you would be so kind as to help Tessa." Trout went over and hoisted Tessa up by the waist. She was as light as a feather. Tessa tucked the torch in at an angle where the clay met the thatch. The torch had only to burn a few inches before the flame touched the ceiling. They repeated the procedure with another torch on the opposite wall.

"I don't count arson among my talents, but this crude time delay will create a distraction when we need it," Francesca said. She looked around the throne room. "Good-bye," she said sadly to no one in particular. "In some ways I'll miss being a queen." She turned to Tessa, and they talked heatedly. When the discussion was ended Tessa had a satisfied look on her face. Francesca sighed heavily. "You see what's happening? My subjects are al ready rebelling. I ordered Tessa to stay, but she wants to go with us. We don't have time to argue further. Follow me."

Francesca led the way along the dim passageways to her bed

room. The two woven bags on the bed explained Tessa's temporary absence. She had been packing for their escape. Francesca removed her battered aluminum suitcase from the wooden chest. It had been rigged with a strap which she threw over her shoulder. Handing one bag to Paul and the other to Gamay, Francesca said that the containers held food and supplies and "a few essentials."

Gamay looked around the windowless room. "Where do we go from here?" The sound of drums was muffled, but the beating was more frenetic.

"We take a shower, of course," Francesca said.

She lit a small clay lamp from the torch, went over to the shower stall, and pulled up the polished wooden floor to reveal a rectangular opening.

"There's a ladder. It's very steep. Be careful."

She descended first so the others could climb down by lamp light. They were crowded together in a small space, standing on the gravel drain that had been used to catch water from the shower. A passage led off into the darkness.

"My apologies to you, Dr. Paul. I wasn't expecting someone as tall. We've been digging this tunnel for years, carrying the dirt out in small amounts and secretly disposing of it. This passage way runs into a covered trench I had the men build years ago for future waterworks."

With Paul stooping low to keep from bumping his head, they half walked, half crawled along the passageway. The floor and walls had been smoothed, and evenly spaced beams supported the ceiling. Francesca extinguished the light because of the smoke in the tight confines, and they traveled in darkness. After about fifty feet the tunnel angled into another, slightly bigger passageway.

"This is the water works," Francesca said in hushed tones. "We must be silent. The tunnel is only a couple of feet below ground, and the Chulo have sharp ears."

Using a primitive fire starter similar to the one carried by Tessa's half-brother, Francesca got the lamp going again and they forged ahead. They made slow progress, but after about fifteen minutes the tunnel came to an end. Francesca motioned for Paul to squeeze up beside her. She pulled a small spade from her bag and chopped away at the blank dirt wall until the blade hit something with a thud.

"I'll need your strength again, Dr. Paul. Push against this hatch. I don't think anyone is at the river, but be cautious."

She backed off to give Paul more room. He put his shoulder against the wood, braced himself, and shoved, gradually increasing the pressure until he felt the wood give. He pushed harder. The circular cover opened a few inches. Paul peered through the narrow space with one eye and saw water. With a final shove he popped the hatch off.

The opening was in the side of a grassy embankment. He slithered through the hole, then helped the others climb out. Moving from the cool, dark tunnel into the hot sunlight was a shock, and they blinked their eyes like moles. Paul replaced the hatch. While the others covered the opening he slid on his stomach to the top of the bank and peered over the edge.

The stockade fence and its grim decorations were a short distance away. The tunnel had passed right under it. A tall, billowing plume of black smoke rose from beyond the fence. What sounded like a flock of wild birds could be heard. As he listened the bird cries became human voices. He slid back down.

"It looks like they're having a weenie roast," he announced with a grin. Turning to Francesca, he added, "Don't ever tell me you don't have a talent for arson."

Francesca responded by motioning for the others to follow her along the edge of the river. They stayed low, hidden by the embankment, and after a few minutes came upon a dozen dugout canoes. They hauled two dugouts aside. Trout thought of scuttling the others, but their hulls were thick and not easily damaged.

"Anybody got a power saw?" he said. "Even a hatchet would do."

Francesca reached into her sack and came out with a covered pot. Using a flat stone from the riverbed, she smeared the blackish yellow contents of the pot onto the other canoes. She lit the substance on fire. The wood flared into smoldering flames where she had daubed the unctuous mess.

"Greek fire," she said. "It's a combination of resin from local trees. It will burn hotter than napalm. If someone tries to put it out with water, it only makes the fire spread."

The Trouts looked on with wonder as the flames began to eat through the hulls. They knew the sabotage would help, but once the natives had discovered their scuttled craft, they could race along the well-maintained pathway that bordered the river.

They paired the stronger paddlers with weaker ones. Gamay and Francesca got in one craft. Paul and Tessa took the other. They shoved off into the river and paddled for their lives. After an hour they pulled over to the shore for a drink of water and five minutes of rest, then set off again. The paddles raised blisters on their palms as they pushed the canoes against the river current. Francesca passed around a medicinal ointment from her amazing bag, and it numbed the pain in their hands. They kept on, trying to put as many miles between them and the village as possible before daylight failed.

Darkness came all too soon. Travel on the river became difficult, then impossible. The canoes became tangled in thick grass or ran aground on sandbars. They were quickly exhausting them selves and getting nowhere. They gave up and paddled closer to shore, where they dined on jerky and dried fruit. They tried un successfully to sleep, but the dugouts served poorly as beds, and they were happy to see the gray light of morning.

With bleary eyes and stiff joints they set off again. The sound of drums spurred them on and made them set aside their aches and pains. The ominous drumming seemed to come from everywhere and echoed through the forest.

The canoes glided through the curtain of mist rising off the river. The smokescreen hid them from Chulo eyes, but they had to move slowly to avoid obstacles. As the sun rose it baked the mists off to a translucent haze. With the river ahead once more visible they paddled furiously until the sound of drums faded. They kept moving for another hour, not daring to stop. Before long they began to hear a different sound. Gamay cocked her ear. "Listen," she said.

From a distance came a low roar, as if a train were speeding through the forest.

Francesca, whose serious expression had not changed since they left the village, ventured a slight smile. "The Hand of God beckons."

With spirits renewed, they forgot they were tired and hungry and that their buttocks were numb and dug their paddles in once more. The roar grew louder, but it didn't obliterate another sound, a quick whirr as if a river bird had taken flight, followed by a solid thunk.

Paul looked down in disbelief. A three-foot-long arrow was embedded in the side of his canoe. A few inches higher and it would have pierced his rib cage. He looked toward the shore. Flashes of blue-and-white-painted bodies could be seen darting between the trees. The ululating war cry filled the air.

"We're being attacked!" Paul yelled unnecessarily.

Spurred by the arrows chunking into the water around them, Gamay and Francesca were bent low over their paddles. The canoes shot forward out of range.

Their pursuers had quickly caught up, making good time following the path along the river. At one point the trail turned in land to cut through the forest. The natives had to fight their way through thick growth to get a clear shot at the canoes. They made several attempts. Each time the canoes passed beyond the range of their arrows. Even the high-tech weapons Francesca helped forge had their limitations.

It was obvious that the cat-and-mouse game soon would turn in favor of the hunters. The paddlers were bone-weary. They were missing strokes and no longer paddled in a unified rhythm. When it seemed they could go no farther, they were out of the river and onto the lake. They paused for a minute to reconnoiter and to firm up their plan. They would cross the open expanse as quickly as possible, aiming for the outlet to the main river. The impenetrable forest growth along the river would protect them from Chulo arrows.

Heartened by the straightforward scheme, they paddled with renewed vigor, staying midway between the shore and the falls. The thunder of thousands of tons of water plummeting from the five cascades was unimaginable. The canoeists could barely see each other in the fine mist that was thrown up at the base of the falls. Paul vowed to tell Gamay that he had changed his mind about building a hotel there. They came out of the mist cloud into the open lake. Four pairs of eyes scanned the dense forest looking for the outlet.

Gamay, who was in the lead canoe, pointed with her paddle toward the shore. "I see it over there, where the tree line is bro ken. Oh, hell-"

They all saw the source of Gamay's agitation: the flicker of blue and white as three canoes had come out of the river.

"It's a hunting party," Francesca said, squinting against the sun's reflection. "They've been away and won't know we're escaping. I'm still their queen as far as they know. I'll try to bluff my way. Head right at them."