Текст книги "Blue Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Chapter 3

Venezuelan Rain Forest

The Thick Canopy of overhanging tree branches blotted out the sun's rays, making the black water in the still pool seem deeper than it was. Wishing that she hadn't read that the Venezuelan government was reintroducing man-eating Orinoco crocodiles into the wild, Gamay Morgan Trout jackknifed her lithe body in a surface dive and with strong kicks of her slender legs descended into the Stygian darkness. This must be how a prehistoric animal felt sinking into the ooze at the La Brea tar pits in California, Gamay thought. She flicked on the twin halogen lights attached to her Stingray video camera and swam down to the bottom. As she passed over the spinachy vegetation that rose and fell in the slight current as if dancing to music, something poked her in the buttocks.

She whirled around, almost more indignant than scared, her hand going for the sheath knife at her waist. Inches from her face mask was a long, narrow snout attached to a lumpish pink head with small black eyes. The snout waggled back and forth like a scolding finger. Gamay unclenched her hand from the knife hilt and pushed the snout aside.

"Watch it with that thing!" The sentence streamed out the regulator as a stream of noisy bubbles.

The thin beak opened in a friendly, sharp-toothed circus clown's grin. Then the river dolphin's face rotated so that it was looking at her upside down.

Gamay laughed, the sounds coming out like the gurgles Old Faithful makes before it erupts. Her thumb pressed the valve that allowed air to inflate her buoyancy compensator. Within seconds her head broke the pool's calm surface like a jack-in-the box. She leaned back into her inflated BC, whipped the plastic mouthpiece from between her teeth, and broke into a wide grin.

Paul Trout was sitting in his ten-foot Bombard semi-inflatable boat a few yards away. Doing his job as a dive tender, he had followed the foamy air bursts marking his wife's underwater trail. He was startled to see her emerge from the black water and nonplussed at her mirth. Lips pursed in puzzlement, he lowered his head in a characteristic pose, as if he were peering up over the tops of invisible spectacles.

"Are you all right?" he said, blinking his large hazel eyes.

"I'm fine," Gamay said, although clearly she wasn't. Her laughter was rekindled by the incredulous expression on Paul's face. She choked on a mouthful of water. The prospect of drowning from laughter made her laugh even more. She popped the mouthpiece back into her mouth. Paul paddled the inflatable closer, leaned over the side, and offered his hand.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she said. She regained her composure and spat out the regulator. After a fit of wet-dog coughs she said, "I'd better come aboard."

Clinging to the side of the boat, she handed her dive gear up to Paul, who then reached down and easily lifted her one hundred thirty-five pounds onto the raft. With his tan shorts, matching military-style shirt with epaulets on the shoulders, and floppy brimmed poplin hat, he looked like a Victorian fugitive from the Explorers' Club. The large tropical butterfly perched below his Adam's apple was actually one of the colorful bow ties he was addicted to. Trout saw no reason he couldn't be impeccably dressed anywhere, even in the depths of the Venezuelan rain forest where a loincloth is considered going formal. Paul's foppish attire belied a potent physical strength built up from his days as a fisherman on Cape Cod. The barnacle-hard calluses on his palms were gone, but the muscles from hoisting fish boxes lurked behind the razor-creased clothes, and he knew how to use the leverage of his six-foot-eight body.

"The depth finder says it's only thirty feet deep, so your giddiness is not caused by nitrogen narcosis," he said in his typical analytical way.

Gamay undid the tie holding back the shoulder-length hair whose dark red color had prompted her wine connoisseur father to name his daughter after the grape of Beaujolais.

"Insightful observation, my dear," she said, wringing the water from her tresses. "I was laughing because I thought I was the sneaker when I was really the sneakee."

Paul blinked. "What a relief. That certainly clears things know what a sneaker is. Sneakee, on the other hand . . ."

She flashed a dazzling smile. "Cyrano the dolphin sneaked up and goosed me with his nose."

"I don't blame him." He leered at her slim-hipped body with a Groucho Marx hike of his eyebrows.

"Mother warned me about men who wear bow ties and part their hair in the middle."

"Did I ever tell you, you look like Lauren Hutton?" he said, puffing on an imaginary cigar. "And that I'm attracted to women with a sexy space between their front teeth?" "Bet you say that to all the girls," she said, putting a Mae West huskiness into her voice, which was low and cool by nature. "I did learn something scientific from Cyrano's little love poke."

"That you have a nose fetish?"

She gave him a no-nonsense lift of her eyebrow. "No, al though I wouldn't rule it out. I learned that river dolphins may be more primitively developed than their saltwater cousins and more mellow in general than their marine relatives. But they are intelligent and playful and have a sense of humor."

"You would need a sense of humor if you were pink and gray, had flippers with discernible fingers on them, a dorsal fin that's a joke in itself, and a head like a deformed cantaloupe."

"Not a bad biological observation for a deep ocean geologist."

"Glad to be of help."

She kissed him again, on the lips this time. "I really appreciate your being here. And for all the work you've done computer profiling the river. It's been a nice change. I'm almost sorry to be going home."

Paul looked around at their tranquil surroundings. "I've actually enjoyed it. This place is like a medieval cathedral. And the critters have certainly been fun, although I don't know if I like them taking liberties with my wife."

"Cyrano and I have a purely platonic relationship," Gamay said with a haughty elevation of her chin. "He was just trying to get my attention so I'd give him a treat." "A treat?"

"A fish treat." She slapped the side of the inflatable several times with a paddle. There was a splash where the lagoon opened into the river. A pinkish-gray hump with a long, low dorsal fin cut a V-shaped ripple in their direction. It circled the boat, emitting a sneezing sound from its blowhole. Gamay scattered fish meal pellets, and the slim beak came out of the water and hungrily snapped them down.

"We've verified those apocryphal stories of dolphins coming on call. I can imagine them helping the locals with their fishing as we've heard."

"You've also proven that Cyrano has done a good job of training you to give him a snack."

"True, but these creatures are supposed to be unfinished versions of the saltwater type, so it's of interest to me that their brains have advanced faster than their physical appearance." They watched the circling dolphin with amusement for a few minutes, then, aware that the light was waning, decided to head back.

While Gamay arranged her gear, Paul started the outboard motor and headed them out of the lagoon onto the slow-moving river. The inky water changed to a strained-pea green. The dolphin kept pace, but when he saw there would be no more treats, he peeled off like a fighter plane. Before long the thick jungle along the river gave way to a clearing. A handful of thatched huts were grouped around a white stucco house with a red tile roof and arcade facade in the Spanish colonial style.

They tied up at a small pier, hauled their gear from the boat, and walked to the stucco building, trailing a chattering gang of half naked Indian children. The youngsters were shooed away by the housekeeper, a formidable Spanish-Indian woman who wielded a broom like a battle-ax. Paul and Gamay went inside. A silver-haired man in his sixties, wearing a white shirt with an embroidered front, cotton slacks, and handmade sandals, rose from his desk in the coolness of the study where he had been working on a pile of papers. He strode over to greet them with obvious pleasure.

"Senor and Senora Trout. Good to see you. Your work went well, I trust."

"Very well, Dr. Ramirez. Thank you," Gamay said. "I had the chance to catalog more dolphin behavior, and Paul wrapped up his computer modeling of the river."

"I had very little to do with it, actually," Paul said. "It was mostly a question of alerting researchers at the Amazon Basin project of Gamay's work here and asking them to point the LandSat satellite in this direction. I can finish the computer modeling when we get home, and Gamay will use it as part of her habitat analysis."

"I'll be very sorry to see you go. It was kind of the National Underwater amp; Marine Agency to lend its experts for a small re search project."

Gamay said, "Without these rivers and the flora and fauna that grow here, there would be no ocean life."

"Thank you, Senora Gamay. As a way of appreciation I have prepared a special dinner for your last night here."

"That's very nice of you," Paul said. "We'll pack early so we'll be ready for the supply boat."

"I wouldn't be too concerned," he said. "The boat is always late."

"Fine with us," Paul replied. "We'll have time to talk some more about your work."

Ramirez chuckled. "I feel like a troglodyte. I still practice my science of botany the old way, cutting plants, preserving and comparing them, and writing reports nobody reads." He beamed. "Our little river creatures have never had better friends than you." Gamay said. "Perhaps our work will show where the dolphins' habitat is under environmental threat. Then something can be done about it."

He shook his head sadly. "In Latin America, government tends to move slowly unless there is someone's pocket to be filled. Worthwhile projects sink into the morass." "Sounds like home. Our bottomless swamp is named Washington, D.C."

They were laughing at their shared joke when the house keeper herded a native into the study. He was short and muscular, wore a loincloth, and had large copper loops in his ears. His jet-black hair was cut in bangs, and his eyebrows had been shaved off. He spoke in respectful tones to the doctor, but his ex cited speech and darting eyes made it clear something had set him off. He kept pointing toward the river. Dr. Ramirez grabbed a broad-brimmed Panama hat from a hook.

"There is apparently a dead man in a canoe," he said. "My apologies, but as the only government representative of any kind within a hundred miles, I must investigate."

"May we come?" Gamay said.

"Of course. I am hardly a Sherlock Holmes and would welcome other trained scientific eyes. You may find this of inter est. This gentleman says the dead man is a ghost-spirit." Noting the puzzled reaction of his guests, he said, "I'll explain later."

They hustled from the house and walked quickly past the huts to the edge of the river. The men of the village were gathered silently near the water. Children were trying to peek through their legs. The women stayed back. The gathering parted as Dr. Ramirez approached. Tied up to the dock was an ornately carved dugout canoe. The dugout was painted white except for the bow, which was blue, and a blue stripe that extended from the front to the back.

The body of a young Indian man lay on his back inside the canoe. Like the village Indians, he had black hair cut in bangs and he wore only a loincloth. The resemblance ended there. The village men tattooed their bodies or dabbed crimson paint on their high cheekbones to protect them from evil spirits who supposedly cannot see the color red. The dead man's nose and chin were painted in a pale blue that extended down his arms. The rest of his body was a stark white. When Dr. Ramirez leaned into the canoe his shadow startled the green-bottle flies clustered on the dead man's chest, and they buzzed off to reveal a gaping circular hole.

Paul sucked his breath in. "That looks like a gunshot wound."

"I think you're right," Dr. Ramirez said, a serious look in his deep-set eyes. "It doesn't resemble any spear or arrow wound I've ever seen."

He turned to the villagers and after a few minutes of conversation translated for the Trouts.

"They say they were out fishing when the canoe came floating on the river. They recognized it from the color as a ghost spirit boat and were afraid. It appeared to be empty so they came alongside. They saw the dead man in the canoe and thought they would simply let the boat go on its way. Then they thought better of it, because his spirit might come back to haunt them for not giving him a decent burial. So they brought him here and made him my problem."

"Why would they be afraid of this . . . ghost-spirit?" Gamay asked.

The doctor tweaked the end of his bushy gray mustache. "The Chulo, which is the local name for the tribe this gentleman belongs to, are said to live beyond the Great Falls. The natives say they are ghosts who were born of the mists. People who have gone into their territory have never come out." He gestured to ward the canoe. "As you can see, this gentleman is flesh and

blood like the rest of us." He reached into the canoe and pulled out a bag made of flayed animal skin that was lying next to the corpse. The village natives backed away as if he were brandishing a sack full of black plague. He spoke in Spanish to one of the Indians, who became more animated the longer they talked.

Ramirez abruptly ended the conversation and turned to the Trouts. "They are afraid of him," he said, and indeed, the village men were drifting back to their families. "If you would be so kind, we will haul the boat onto shore. I persuaded them to dig a hole, but not in their own cemetery. Over there, on the other side of the river, where nobody goes anyhow. The shaman has assured them that he can place enough totems on the grave to keep the dead man from wandering." He smiled. "Having the body so near will give the shaman more power. When something goes wrong with his spells he can always say the dead man's spirit has returned. We will send the boat off by itself down the river, and the spirit will be allowed to follow it."

Paul eyed the canoe's fine workmanship. "Seems a shame to waste such a beautiful example of boat building. Anything to keep the peace." He grabbed one end of the canoe. With the three people pulling and pushing, they soon had it up on the shore away from the river. Ramirez covered the body with a woven blanket from the canoe. Then he retrieved the sack, which was about the size of a golf bag and tied with thongs at the open end.

"Perhaps this will tell us more about our ghost," he said, leading the way back to the house. They went into the study and placed the bag on a long library table. He untied the thongs, opened the bag gingerly, and peered inside. "We must be careful. Some of the tribes use poisoned arrows or blowgun darts." He lifted the bottom of the sack, and several smaller bags slid out onto the desk. He opened one and extracted a shiny metal disk that he handed to Gamay. "I understand you studied archaeology before you became a biologist. Perhaps you know what this is."

Gamay furrowed her brow as she examined the flat, round object. "A mirror? It appears that vanity is not confined to women."

Paul took the mirror from her hand and turned it over to ex amine the markings on the back. A smile crossed his face. "I had one of these when I was a kid. It's a signal mirror. Look, these are dots and dashes. This isn't like any Morse code I know, but it's not bad. See these little stick figures? A basic code. Guy running one way means come, facing the other direction is go, I'd guess. Here's someone lying down."

"Stay where you are," Gamay ventured.

"My guess, too. These two fellows with spears might mean join me to fight. Little guy and the animal could stand for hunt." He chuckled. ' Almost as good as a cell phone."

"Better," Gamay said. "It doesn't use batteries or cost you per minute."

Paul asked Ramirez if he could open another bag, and the Spaniard gladly assented.

"Fishing kit," Trout said. "Metal hooks, fiber line. Hey," he said, examining a crude pair of metal pincers. "Bet this is a pair of pliers for pulling hooks out."

"I've got you beat," Gamay said, emptying another bag and pulling out a connected pair of small wooden circles with dark transparent surfaces filling their openings. She attached the apparatus to her ears with fiber hoops. "Sunglasses."

Not to be outdone, Ramirez also had been poking through bags. He held a gourd about six inches long, unplugged the wooden top, and sniffed. "Medicine perhaps? It smells like alcohol."

Hanging from the bottom was a miniature bowl and a wooden handle with a flat piece of stone and an irregular wheel on a rotating axis. Paul stared thoughtfully at the gourd, then took it from the other man. He filled the dish with the liquid, brought the wooden device near, and flicked the wheel. It scraped across the stone and emitted sparks. The liquid ignited with a poof.

"Voila," he said with obvious satisfaction. "The very first Bic cigarette lighter. Handy for starting a campfire, too."

More interesting discoveries followed. One bag held herbs Ramirez identified as medicinal plants including some he had never seen. In another was a slim, flat piece of metal, pointed at both ends. When they placed it on a glass of water it swung around until one end pointed toward the magnetic north. They found a bamboo cylinder. When held to the eye the glass lenses imbedded inside offered about an eight-power telescopic magnification. There was a knife that folded into a slim wooden case. Their last find was a short bow made from overlapping strips of metal like a car spring and curved to provide maximum pull for an arrow. The bowstring was of thin metal cable. It was hardly the primitive design one would expect to find in the rain forest. Ramirez ran his hand over the polished metal.

"Amazing," he said. "I've never seen anything like this. The bows the villagers use are simple dowels pulled back and tied with a crude bowstring."

"How did he learn how to make these things?" Paul said, scratching his head.

Gamay said, "It's not just the objects themselves but the material they are made of. Where did it come from?"

They stood around the table in silence.

"There is a more important question," Ramirez said somberly. "Who killed him?"

"Of course," Gamay said. "We were so overwhelmed by his technical accomplishments that we forgot that these objects be long to a dead human being."

"Do you have any idea who might have murdered him?" Paul asked.

A dark cloud descended on Ramirez's brow. "Poachers. Wood cutters and burners. The latest are men who collect valuable plants for medicine. They would kill anyone who got in their way."

"How could a lone Indian be a threat?" Gamay asked.

Ramirez shrugged.

Gamay said, "I think that in a murder investigation you are supposed to start with the corpse."

"Where did you hear that?" Paul said. "I may have read it in a detective novel." "Good advice. Let's take another look."

They walked back to the river and uncovered the body. Paul rolled it over onto its stomach. The smaller entry wound indicated that the man had been shot in the back. Trout gently re moved a carved pendant from around his neck. It showed a winged woman holding her hands in front of her as if she were pouring from them. He passed it to Gamay, who said the figure reminded her of Egyptian engravings of the rebirth of Osiris.

Paul was taking a closer look at the reddish welts on the dead man's shoulders. "Looks like he's been whipped." He rolled the body onto its back again. "Hey, check out this strange scar," he said, indicating a pale thin line on the Indian's lower abdomen. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he had his appendix out."

Two dugouts arrived from across the river. The shaman, whose head was adorned with a brilliant crown of feathers, announced that the grave was ready. Trout covered the dead body with the blanket, and, with Gamay at the tiller, they used the inflatable to tow the blue-and-white canoe to the other side. Trout and Ramirez carried the body a few hundred yards into the forest and buried it in the shallow hole. The shaman surrounded the grave with what looked like various dried chicken parts and solemnly warned the assemblage that the spot would be forever taboo. Then they towed the empty canoe to midstream, where the current would catch it, and set the dugout adrift.

"How far will it go?" Paul asked as they watched the blue and-white craft wheel slowly on its final journey.

"There are rapids not far from here. If it isn't broken up on the rocks or caught in the weeds, it could continue on to the sea."

"Ave atque vale," Trout said, quoting the old Roman salute to the dead. "Hail and farewell."

They went back across the river. As Ramirez was climbing from the inflatable, he slipped on the wet bank.

"Are you all right?" Gamay said.

Ramirez grimaced with pain. "You see, the evil spirits have already begun their work. I've apparently twisted something. I'll put a cold compress on it, but I may require your assistance to walk."

He limped back to the house with a hand from the Trouts. Ramirez said he would report the incident to the regional authorities. He didn't expect a response. A dead Indian was still considered a good Indian by many in his country.

"Well," he said, brightening. "What is done is done. I look forward to our dinner tonight."

The Trouts went back to their room to rest and clean up for dinner. Ramirez collected rainwater in a roof cistern and channeled it into a shower. Gamay had evidently been thinking about the Indian. As she toweled off she said, "Do you remember the Ice Man they found in the Alps?"

Paul had slipped into a silk bathrobe and was stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head. "Sure. Stone Age guy who got freeze-dried in a glacier. What about him?"

"By looking at the tools and possessions he carried it was possible to picture his way of life. The Indians around here are at a Stone Age level. Our blue-faced friend doesn't fit the mold. How did he learn to make those things? If we had found those tools on the Ice Man, it would be in every newspaper headline. I can see it now: 'Ice Man Flicks a Bic.' "

"Maybe he subscribes to Popular Mechanics."

"Maybe he gets Boy's Life, too, but even if he got instructions every month on how to make neat stuff, where would he get re fined metals to make them with?"

"Perhaps Dr. Ramirez can enlighten us at dinner. I hope you're hungry," Paul said. He was staring out the window.

"I'm starved. Why?"

"I just saw a couple of natives carrying a tapir to the barbecue pit."