Текст книги "Blue Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Chapter 5

"How do you like your meal?" Dr. Ramirez inquired.

Paul and Gamay exchanged glances. "It's wonderful," Gamay said. Indeed it was, she thought, surprisingly so. She would have to tell St. Julien Perlmutter, naval historian and gourmet, about this exotic dinner. The thin, tender slices of white meat were spiced with local herbs, accompanied by rich, dark gravy and fresh sweet potatoes. Dinner was served with a respectable Chilean white wine. Oh God! She'd been in the jungle so long she had developed a taste for roast tapir. Next she'd be craving howler monkeys.

Paul displayed his Yankee bluntness. "I agree. It's terrific. We'd never guess it would be so good after seeing the men carry that odd-looking beast in from the forest."

Ramirez put his fork down, a puzzled expression on his face. "Beast? The forest-I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The tapir," Gamay volunteered hesitantly as she glanced down at her plate.

Ramirez looked stunned, then his mustache twitched and he broke out into a deep laugh. He brought his napkin to his lips. "You thought . . ." He started to laugh again. "Excuse me. I am a poor host. Amusing myself at the expense of my guests. But I must assure you that this is not the animal you saw being trundled in from the hunt. I bought a pig from a neighboring village

for this feast." He made a sour face. "Tapir. I can't imagine what it is like. Perhaps it's quite tasty."

Ramirez poured more wine and raised his glass in a toast. "I will miss you, my friends. Your company has been most enjoy able, and we have had many delightful conversations around this table."

"Thank you," Gamay said. "It has been a fascinating experience for us. Today may have been our most exciting day, how ever."

"Ah, yes, the poor Indian."

Paul shook his head. "I can't get over the sophisticated nature of all those gadgets he had with him."

Ramirez spread his palms apart. "The People of the Mists are a mysterious tribe."

"What do you know about them?" Gamay said, her scientific curiosity aroused. Before she attained a doctorate in marine biology from Scripps Institute of Oceanography, she had been a marine archaeologist and had taken many anthropology courses during her studies at the University of North Carolina.

Ramirez took a sip of wine, nodded with appreciation, and stared off into space as he ordered his thoughts. The buzzing and chirping of millions of tropical insects came through the screened windows, and the concert provided a fitting back ground for tales of the rain forest.

After a moment's reflection, he said, "First you must realize as we sit here in this island of civilization, with our propane gas stove and our electrical generator, that only a few years ago we would have been dead within minutes had we strayed into this part of the forest. Fierce Indians inhabited the area. Head hunting and cannibalism were commonplace. Anyone, whether you were a missionary bringing in the word of God or a hunter searching for animal skins, was regarded as an intruder who must be killed. Only recently have these people been domesticated."

"Except for the Chulo," Gamay ventured.

"Correct. They retreated further into the forest rather than

be pacified. I must confess that I learned more about them today than I knew in the three years I have been living here. I have seriously doubted they even exist. With this tribe you must separate facts from legend. The other Indians avoid the forest beyond the Great Falls. They say people who go into Chulo territory never come out. Their fear, as you saw today, is real. Those are the scant facts." "And the legend?" Gamay said.

"They can make themselves invisible," Ramirez said with a smile. "They can fly. They can pass through solid obstacles. They are more like ghosts or spirits than men. They can't be killed by ordinary weapons."

"The bullet hole we saw puts that myth to rest," Paul said.

"It would seem so," Ramirez agreed. "There is another story, even more intriguing. The tribe is apparently matriarchal. A woman leads it. A goddess, in fact."

"An Amazon?" Gamay suggested.

In answer, Ramirez pulled an object from his pocket. It was the pendant that had been hanging around the dead man's neck. "Perhaps this is our winged goddess. It is said she protects her tribe and that her vengeance is terrible."

"She who must be obeyed," Gamay said dramatically.

"Pardon?"

Gamay smiled. "It's a quote from an adventure story I read when I was young. About a jungle goddess who lived for. thou sands of years without aging."

Paul took the pendant and studied it. "Goddess or not, she didn't do a very good job of guarding the native we saw."

The older man's face darkened. "Yes, but at the same time . . ."

"Is there something wrong?" Gamay said.

"I'm somewhat concerned. One of the village men came to me. He said there were stirrings of trouble in the forest." "What kind of trouble?" Paul asked. "He didn't know. Only that it had to do with the murdered Indian."

"In what way?" Gamay asked.

"I'm not sure exactly." He paused. "Creatures are being killed in this forest at this moment. Insects, animals, and birds are constantly involved in a violent struggle for life. Yet out of this bloody chaos there is an equilibrium." His deep-set eyes seemed to grow even darker. "I fear that the killing of the Indian has disturbed this balance."

"Maybe the Amazon goddess is about to wreak her revenge," Paul said, handing the medallion back.

Ramirez swung the pendant back and forth on its thong as if he were Svengali using it as a hypnotic device. '~As a man of science, I must deal with the facts. It is a fact that someone out there has a gun and has no hesitation about using it. Either the Indian strayed out of his territory or someone with a gun invaded it."

"Do you have any thoughts on who this person might be?" Gamay asked.

"Perhaps. Do you know anything about the rubber industry?"

Both Trouts shook their heads.

"A hundred years ago rubber trees grew only in the Amazon jungle. Then a British scientist stole some seeds to start vast rubber plantations in the east. The same thing is happening now. The shaman who accompanied us on our burial detail today is a bit of a fraud when it comes to chasing out evil demons, but he knows the medicinal value of hundreds of rain forest plants. People come here and say they are scientists, but they are really pi rates looking for herbs that have medicinal properties. They sell the patents to multinational drug companies. Sometimes they work directly for the companies. In either case the companies make fortunes while the natives who have harbored the knowledge get nothing. Even worse, sometimes men come in and take the medicinal plants."

"You think one of these 'pirates' tortured and shot the Indian?" Paul asked.

"It's possible. When millions are at stake, the life of a poor

Indian means nothing. Why they shot him, I don't know. It's possible he simply saw something he shouldn't have. These plant secrets have been with the forest inhabitants for generations." "Is anybody trying to stop these pirates?" Gamay said.

"It is a problem. Sometimes government officials are in collusion with the drug companies. The stakes are very high. The governments care little about the indigenous people. They are interested only in how to sell the natives' genetic knowledge of plants to the highest bidder."

"So the piracy goes unchecked?"

"Not quite. The universities are sending teams of true scientists to track down the pirates. They are doing research on plants themselves, but at the same time they talk to the Indians and ask if there have been strangers asking questions. Our neighbors in Brazil have tried to stop the theft of genetic resources in the court. They sued a scientist for cataloging seeds and tree bark the Indians use for cures and charged him with stealing knowledge from indigenous people."

"A difficult charge to make stick," Paul noted.

"Agreed. Brazil is also pushing legislation to protect bio diversity, so we are making progress, but not much. We are talking about taking on drug companies with billions of dollars in re sources. It is not an even match."

A thought occurred to Gamay. "Has your university been involved?"

"Yes," he said. "We have had teams from time to time. But there is little money for full-time police work."

It wasn't the answer Gamay was looking for, but she didn't persist. "I wish there was something we could do."

"There is," Ramirez said with a broad smile. "I would ask a favor. Please feel under no obligation to grant it."

"Try us," Paul said amiably.

"Very well. A few hours' travel from here there is another settlement on the river. The Dutchman who lives there has no radio. They may have heard about a Chulo being killed. In any event, they should be told, in case there are repercussions." He stuck his leg out. The ankle was heavily wrapped in a bandage. "I can barely walk. I don't think there is a break, but it is badly sprained. I was wondering if you could go in my place. You could make a quick trip of it." "What about the supply boat?" Gamay asked.

"It is due late tomorrow as expected. They will lay over for the night. You would be back before it leaves."

"I don't see why we can't do it," Gamay said, stopping short as she caught the quizzical look in her husband's eye. "If it's okay with Paul."

"Well-"

"Ah, I apologize. My request has created marital discord."

"Oh, no," Paul reassured him. "It's simply my New England caution. Of course we'd like to help you."

"Splendid. I will have my men gather supplies for you and fuel my boat. It will be faster on the river than your inflatable. She should make the round trip in the same day."

"I thought you had only dugout canoes in the village," Gamay said.

Ramirez smiled. "They serve most of my needs, yes, but occasionally more efficient transportation is desirable."

She shrugged. "Tell us more about the man you call the Dutchman."

"Dieter is actually German. He's a trader, married to a native woman. He comes here occasionally, but mostly he sends his men once a month with a list, and we relay it to the supply boat. He is an unsavory character in my opinion, but that is no reason not to warn him of possible danger." Ramirez paused. "You do not have to do this. These things are really none of your affair, and you are scientists, not adventurers. Especially the beautiful Senora Trout."

"I think we can handle it," Gamay said, looking at her husband with amusement.

She was not speaking with bravado, but as part of the NUMA Special Assignments Team she and Paul had been on any number of dangerous assignments. And as attractive as she was, Gamay was no delicate flower. Back in Racine, Wisconsin, where she was born, she had been a tomboy who ran with a pack of boys and later moved with ease among men.

"Well, then, we have an agreement. After dessert we will have a glass of brandy and retire so we can be up at the crack of dawn."

A short while later the Trouts were back in their room getting ready for bed when Gamay asked Paul, "Why were you hesitant about helping Dr. Ramirez?"

"Couple of reasons. Let's start with the fact that this little side trip has nothing to do with our NUMA assignment."

Paul ducked the pillow tossed at his head. "Since when have you gone by the NUMA rule book?" Gamay said.

"Like you, whenever it has been convenient. I've stretched the rules but never broken them."

"Then let's just stretch them a little by saying that the river is an integral part of the ocean, therefore any dead person found on it should be investigated by NUMA's Special Assignments Team. Must I remind you that the team was formed precisely to look into matters nobody else would?"

"Not a bad sales pitch, but don't put too much stock in your powers of persuasion. If you hadn't suggested looking into this thing, I would have. On similarly flimsy grounds, I might add. I have an aversion to someone getting away with murder."

"So do I. Do you have any idea where we might start?"

"Already handled that. Don't let my taciturn Cape Cod nature deceive you."

"Not in a hundred years, my dear."

"Back to your original question, the reason I hesitated was my surprise. This is the first time Ramirez mentioned his boat. He's given us the impression he used dugouts. Remember the fuss he made about how great our little putt-putt inflatable was? I was sniffing around one day and found a shed holding an air boat."

She leaned up on one elbow. "An airboat! Why didn't he say something?"

"I think it's obvious. He didn't want anybody to know. I think our friend Ramirez is more complicated than he appears."

"I have the same impression. I think he was being disingenuous about sending us scientific geeks off on a potentially dangerous mission. We've told him enough about the Special Assignments Team for him to know what we do when we're not counting river dolphins. I think he wants NUMA brought into this thing."

"Looks like we've played right into his hands, but I'm not sure why he'd be so Machiavellian."

"I've got an idea," Gamay said. "He was talking about the scientists from the university acting as bio police. He is a scientist from a university. He sort of side-slipped the implication."

"I noticed." Paul stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. "So you think he's actually a bio cop disguised as a botanist?"

"It would make sense." Gamay paused in thought. "I must confess that the real reason I want to investigate was in those bags we found with the Chulo. I'm intrigued at how a backward Indian got all those high-tech toys, aren't you?"

There was no sound from the other side of the bed except that of low breathing. Paul was exercising his famous talent for dropping off to sleep on command. Gamay shook her head, pulled the sheets over her shoulders, and did the same. They would be up with the sun, and she expected the next day to be a long one.

Chapter 6

The Mexican customs agent leaned from his window and checked out the two men in the white Ford pickup truck. They were wearing beat-up shorts and T-shirts, Foster Grant sunglasses, and baseball caps with bait shop logos on them.

"Purpose of your visit?" the agent asked the husky man be hind the wheel. The driver jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the fishing rods and tackle boxes in back. "Going fishing."

"Wish I could join you," the agent said with a smile, and waved them on into Tijuana.

As they pulled away, Zavala, who was sitting in the passenger seat, said, "What's with the Spies Like Us routine? All we had to do was flash our NUMA IDs."

Austin grinned. "This is more fun."

"We're lucky our clean-cut appearance doesn't fit the profile for terrorists or drug runners."

"I prefer to think that we're masters of disguise." Austin glanced at Zavala and shook his head. "By the way, I hope you brought along your American passport. I wouldn't want you to get stuck in Mexico."

"No problem. It wouldn't be the first time a Zavala sneaked across the border."

Zavala's parents had waded across the Rio Grande in the 1960s from Morales, Mexico, where they were born and raised.

His mother was seven months pregnant at the time. Her condition didn't stand in the way of her determination to start life with her newborn in El Norte. They made their way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where Zavala was born. His father's skills as a carpenter and woodcarver brought him steady work with the wealthy clients who built their fashionable homes there. The same influential people helped his father when he applied for a green card and later for citizenship.

The truck was on loan from the Red Ink's support team because rental cars couldn't be taken into Mexico. From their hotel they headed south from San Diego, passing through Chula Vista, the border town that is neither Mexican nor American but a blend of both countries. Once into Mexico they skirted the sprawling slums of Tijuana, then picked up MEX 1, the Carretera Transper linsula highway that runs the full length of Baja California. Past El Rosarita with its concentration of souvenir shops, motels, and taco stands, the commercial honky-tonk began to thin out. Before long the highway was flanked by agricultural fields and bare hills on the left and by the curving emerald bay known as Todos Los Santos. About an hour after leaving Tijuana they turned off at Ensenada.

Austin knew the resort and fishing city from the days he crewed in the Newport-Ensenada sailboat race. The unofficial finish was at Hussong's Cantina, a seedy old bar with sawdust covered floors. Before the new highway brought the tourists and their dollars, Baja California Norte was truly the frontier. In its heyday Hussong's was a haunt for the colorful local characters and rugged individuals, and the sailors, fishermen, and auto racers who knew Ensenada when it was the last outpost of civilization on the eight-hundred-mile-long Baja peninsula before La Paz. Hussong's was one of those legendary bars, like Foxy's in the Virgin Islands or Capt'n Tony's in Key West, where every body in the world had been. As they stepped inside Austin was heartened to see a few scruffy barflies who might remember the good old days when tequila flowed like a river and the police ran a shuttle service back and forth between the cantina and the local hoosegow.

They sat at a table and ordered huevos rancheros. "Ah, pure soul food," Zavala said, savoring a bite of scrambled eggs and salsa. Austin had been studying the sad expression on the moose head that had been over the bar for as long as he could recall. Still wondering how a moose got to Mexico, he turned his attention back to the map of the Baja that was spread out on the table in front of him next to the satellite photo showing water temperature.

"This is where we're going," he said, pointing to the map. "The temperature anomaly is in the vicinity of this cove."

Zavala finished his meal with a smile of pleasure and opened a Baedecker's guide to Mexico. "It says here that the ballena gris or gray whale arrives off the Baja from December to March to mate and give birth to its young. The whales weigh up to twenty-five tons and run between ten and forty-nine feet long. During mating, one male will keep the female in position while another male-" He winced. "Think I'll skip that part. The gray was almost exterminated by commercial whaling but was made a protected species in 1947." He paused in his reading. "Let me ask you something. I know you've got a lot of respect for any thing that swims in the sea, but I've never thought of you as a whale hugger. Why the big interest? Why not leave this up to the EPA or Fish and Wildlife?"

"Fair question. I could say I want to find out what started the chain of events that ended up with the sinking of Pop's boat. But there's another reason that I can't put my finger on." A thoughtful expression came into Austin's eyes. "It reminds me of some scary dives I've made. You know the kind. You're swimming along, everything seemingly fine, when the hair rises on the back of your neck, your gut goes ice-cold, and you've got a bad feeling you're not alone, that something is watching you. Something hung7y. "

"Sure," Zavala said contemplatively. "But it usually goes be yond that. I imagine that the biggest, baddest, hungriest shark in the ocean is behind me, and he's thinking how it's been a long time since he's had authentic Mexican food." He took another bite of his huevos. "But when I look around there's nothing there, or maybe there's a minnow the size of my finger who's been giving me the evil eye."

"The sea is wrapped in mystery," Austin said with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Is that a riddle?"

"In a way. It's a quote from Joseph Conrad. 'The sea never changes and its works, for all the talk of men, are wrapped in mystery.'" Austin tapped the map with his fingertip. "Whales die every day. We lose some to natural causes. Others get tangled in fishing nets and starve to death, or they get nailed by a ship, or we poison them with pollution because some people think it's okay to use the sea for a toxic waste dump." He paused. "But this doesn't fit any of those categories. Even with out interference from humans, nature is always out of kilter, constantly adjusting and readjusting. But it's not a cacophony. It's like the improvisation you see with a good jazz group, Ahmad Jamal doing a piano solo, going off on his own, catching up with his rhythm section later." He let out a deep laugh. "Hell, I'm not making sense."

"Don't forget I've seen your jazz collection, Kurt. You're saying there's a sour note here."

"More a universal dissonance." He thought about it some more. "I like your analogy better. I've got the feeling that there's a big bad-ass shark lurking just out of sight and it's hungry as hell."

Zavala pushed his empty plate away. "As they say back home, the best time to fish is when the fish are hungry."

"I happen to know you grew up in the desert, amigo," Austin said, rising. "But I agree with what you're saying. Let's go fishing."

From Ensenada they got back on the highway and headed south. As in Tijuana, the commercial sprawl thinned out and vanished and the highway went down to two lanes. They turned off the highway past Maneadero and followed back roads past agricultural fields, scattered farm houses, and old missions, eventually coming into rugged, lonely country with fog-shrouded rolling hills that dropped down to the sea. Zavala, who was navigating, checked the map. "We're almost there. Just around the corner," he said.

Austin didn't know what he was expecting. Even so he was surprised when they rounded the curve and he saw a neatly lettered sign in Spanish and English announcing they were at the home of the Baja Tortilla Company. He pulled over to the side of the road. The sign was at the beginning of a long, clay drive bordered with planted trees. They could see a large building at the end of the driveway.

Austin leaned on the steering wheel and pushed his Foster Grants up onto his forehead. "You're sure this is the right spot?"

Zavala handed the map over for Austin's examination. "This is the place," he said.

"Looks like we drove all this way for nothing."

"Maybe not," Zavala said. "The huevos rancheros were excel lent, and I've got a new Hussong's Cantina T-shirt."

Austin's eyes narrowed. "Coincidence makes me suspicious. The sign says 'Visitors Welcome.' As long as we're here, let's take them at their word."

He turned the truck off the highway and drove a few hundred yards to a neatly tended gravel parking lot marked with spaces for visitors. Several cars with California plates and a couple of tour buses were parked in front of the building, a corrugated aluminum structure with a portaled adobe facade and tiled roof in the Spanish style. The smell of baking corn wafted through the pickup's open windows.

"Diabolically clever disguise," Zavala said.

"I hardly expected to see a neon sign that said, 'Welcome from the guys who killed the whales.' "

"I wish we were toting our guns," Zavala said with mock gravity. "You never know when a wild tortilla will attack you. I once heard about someone being mauled by a burrito in No gales-"

"Save it for the drive back." Austin got out of the car and led the way to the ornately carved front door of dark wood.

They stepped into a whitewashed reception area. A smiling young Mexican woman greeted them from behind a desk. "Buenos dias," she said. "You are in luck. The tour of the tortilla factory is just starting. You're not with a group from a cruise boat?"

Austin suppressed a smile. "We're on our own. We were driving by and saw the sign."

She smiled again and asked them to join a group of senior citizens, mostly Americans and mostly from the Midwest from the sounds of their accents. The receptionist, who also acted as guide, ushered them into the bakery.

"Corn was life in Mexico, and tortillas have been the staple food in Mexico for centuries with both the Indians and the Spanish settlers." She led the way past where sacks of corn were being emptied into grinding machines. "For many years people made their tortillas at home. The corn was ground into meal, mixed with water to produce masa, then rolled, cut, pressed, and baked by hand. With the growth of demand in Mexico and especially in the United States, the tortilla industry has become more centralized. This has allowed us to modernize our production facilities providing for more efficient and sanitary operation."

Speaking in low tones as they trailed behind the others; Austin said, "If the market for Mexican flapjacks is in the U.S., why isn't this place closer to the border? Why make them down here and ship them up the highway?"

"Good question," Zavala said. "The tortilla business in Mexico is a tightly held monopoly run by guys with close government connections. It's a billion-dollar industry. Even if you did have a good reason to locate this far south, why build overlooking the ocean? Nice place for a luxury hotel, but an operation like this?"

The tour went past the dough mixers which fed into machines that produced hundreds of tortillas a minute, the thin flat pies coming out on conveyor belts, all tended by workers in laundry-white coats and plastic caps. The guide was ushering the group to the packaging and shipping department when Austin spied a door with words written in Spanish on it. "Employees only?" he asked Zavala. Joe nodded.

"I've learned all I want to know about burritos and enchiladas." Austin stepped aside and tried the door. It was unlocked. "I'm going to look around."

Eyeing Austin's imposing physique and blazing white hair, Zavala said, "With due respect for your talents as a snoop, you don't exactly blend in with the people working around here. I might be less conspicuous than a giant gringo stalking the hall ways."

Zavala had a good point. "Okay, snoop away. Be careful. I'll meet you at the end of the tour. If the guide asks, I'll say you had to go to the restroom."

Zavala winked and slipped through the door. He was confident he could charm his way out of practically any situation and had already prepared a story saying he'd become lost looking for the bano. He found himself in a long hallway with no windows or other openings except for a steel door at the far end. He walked the length of the hallway and put his ear against the door. Not hearing anything, he tried the knob. The door was locked.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a modified Swiss Army knife that would have got him arrested in places where possession of burglar tools is illegal. The standard attachments such as scissors, nail file, and can opener had been replaced with picks for the most common locks. On the fourth try he heard the latch click open. Behind the door another corridor slanted down. Unlike the first, this passage had several doors. All were locked except one that opened into a locker room.

The lockers were secure, and he could have opened them with his picks if he had time. He glanced at his watch. The tour would wind up soon. On the opposite wall were shelves piled with neatly folded white coats. He found one that fit and slipped it on. In a supply cabinet he discovered a clipboard. He stepped out into the corridor and continued on to yet a third door. This, too, was locked, but he managed to open it after a few tries.

The door opened onto an elevated platform that overlooked a big room. The platform led to a series of walkways that crossed through a web of linking horizontal and vertical pipes. The low hum of machinery seemed to come from everywhere, and he couldn't trace its source. He descended a set of stairs. The pipes came out of the floor, then disappeared at right angles into the wall. Plumbing for the tortilla factory, he surmised. At one end of the room was another door. It was unlocked. When he cautiously opened it, a cool ocean breeze hit him in the face.

He gasped with surprise. He was standing on a small plat form perched high on the side of a cliff, facing out onto a lagoon about two hundred feet below him. It was a beautiful vista, and again he wondered why somebody hadn't built a hotel rather than a factory there. He assumed the factory was behind the edge of the cliff, but he couldn't see it from his angle. He looked down again. The water washed up against the jagged rocks along the shore in foamy ripples. The platform had a gate at one end that led to empty space with no steps going down or up. Odd. A few feet from the gate a metal rail ran down the side of the cliff and disappeared into the water.

He followed the rail down to the lagoon with his eye. A section of water appeared to be darker than that surrounding it. It might have been kelp and other seaweed washing against the rocks. As he watched, there was an intense bubbling at the base of the cliff, and a large, shiny, egg-shaped object suddenly appeared from the water and began its climb up the side of the cliff. Of course! The rail was for an elevator. The egg rose steadily up the track. It would be there within seconds. Zavala ducked back into the big room with the pipes, keeping the door open a crack.

The egg, made of a dark tinted glass or plastic that blended in with the side of the cliff, came to a stop at the platform. A door opened, and two men in white smocks stepped out. Zavala dashed for the stairs. Within seconds he was back at the store room. He tore his coat off, folded it as neatly as possible, and quickly walked along the corridors to the bakery. Nobody saw him step back into the area open to the public. He hurried along in the direction Austin and the tour group had taken. The guide saw him approach and gave him a quizzical and not altogether pleased look. "I was looking for the bano."

She blushed and said, "Oh, yes. I will show you." She clapped her hands for attention. "The tour is about over." She handed everyone a sample package of tortillas and conducted them back to the reception area. As the cars and tour buses left, Austin and Zavala compared notes.

"From the look on your face I'd guess your little exploration was successful."