Текст книги "Blue Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Chapter 10

Trout stood at the door of the hut as motionless as a totem pole, watching and listening. He had been at his post for hours, staring into the darkness, his every sense alert to catch any change in the rhythms of the night. He had watched the day wind down and seen the shadows mix with the false dusk created by smoldering cook fires. The last few natives had disappeared into their huts like sullen phantoms, and the village went silent except for the brief muffled cry of a baby. Trout was thinking what an unhealthy place this was. It was as if he and Gamay had stumbled into a plague ward.

The Dutchman had kicked the family out of the hut closest to his and with a sweep of his hand ushered the Trouts through the door like the doorman at the Ritz. Slivers of light filtered through the grass walls into the dim interior. Hardly a breath of fresh air entered the close confines. The floor was dirt, a couple of hammocks were slung from support poles, and the furniture consisted of two crude stools and a cutting board fashioned out of stumps. The stifling heat and primitive accommodations didn't faze Trout. He was more bothered by the feeling he and Gamay were trapped.

He wrinkled his nose, a gesture he'd picked up from his father, a Cape Cod fisherman. Trout could picture his father walking to the end of the pier in the predawn darkness and sniffing the air like an old hound dog. Most days he'd say, "Finest kind,

cap. Let's go fishing." But some mornings he would wrinkle his nose and head for the coffee shop without another word. Any doubts about the elder Trout's olfactory prowess disappeared one beautiful morning when he stayed in port and six fishermen were lost in an unpredicted offshore storm. Things hadn't smelled right, his father explained later.

Trout had the same feeling although he was far from the sea in the heart of the Venezuelan rain forest. It was simply too quiet. There were no voices, no coughing, nothing to indicate human habitation of any kind. While it was still light Trout had committed every detail of the village to his near-photographic memory. He began to imagine that the population of the village must have silently vanished in the night. He backed away from the doorway and bent over the still form lying in a hammock. Gamay reached up and felt his face with a light touch of her fingers.

"I'm awake," she said. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

She sat up and swung her feet onto the floor. "I don't trust our friend the Flying Dutchman any further than I could throw him. Not that I would touch him. Yech."

"I agree with your sentiments exactly. I think someone is watching us." He glanced toward the doorway. "This hut re minds me of a lobster trap. One way in, no way out, except to the cooking pot. I suggest we spend the night on the boat."

"Much as I hate to leave these five-star accommodations, I'm ready when you are. Question. How do we sneak off with someone watching?"

"Simple, we go out the back door."

"There wasn't a back door last time I looked."

"Guess you've never heard of Yankee ingenuity," Trout said smugly. "If you would stand watch I'll put my cleverness to work." He slipped a hunting knife from its belt sheath and went to the back of the hut. Kneeling, he slipped the eight-inch blade through the thatch and began to saw. The rustle and snap were barely audible, but to be on the safe side he timed his sawing to

the cry of an unknown forest creature that made a noise like a rat-tail file on metal. Within minutes he had cut a rectangular opening about two feet square in the rear wall. He went to the front of the hut and guided Gamay by the arm to the newly crated exit. She stuck her head through to make sure it was safe, then was out in an instant. Paul's basketball player body slithered out a second later.

They stood side-by-side behind the hut listening to the sym phony of insect buzzes and bird calls. Earlier Gamay had noticed a path that went from behind the huts to the river. They could see the faint outline of hard-packed earth. Gamay led the way, and before long the huts were behind them and their nostrils picked up the river odor of damp rot. The path led to the gardens they had seen from the river in daylight. They walked along the boggy edge of the river and after a few minutes saw the skeletal outline of the airboat's propeller housing. They stopped in case Dieter had someone watching the boat. Paul threw a pebble into the water. The plop failed to draw anyone out of hiding.

They went aboard and readied the boat to leave at the first sign of dawn. Trout tucked a life preserver under his head and stretched out on the deck. Gamay climbed onto the seat and took her turn at the watch. Paul soon dozed off. At first he slept fitfully because of the heat and insects. His exhaustion caught up with him, and eventually he slipped into a deep sleep. In his slumber he heard Gamay calling his name as if from far away. Light was coming through his eyelids. He blinked and saw Gamay, still on her perch, her face grotesque in a flickering yellow glow.

Three dugout canoes were pulled up alongside the airboat. The canoes carried fierce-looking Indians armed with razor sharp spears and machetes. The raw flames from the blazing torches they held in their free hands illuminated the garish red paint on their bronze bodies and faces. Black bangs came down to where their eyebrows would have been if they hadn't been plucked clean. The Indians were clad in loincloths except for one who wore a New York Yankees cap on his head. Trout eyed the shotgun the man cradled in his arms. One more reason to hate the Yankees, he thought.

Trout grinned and said, "Hi." The granite expressions remained unchanged. The man with the shotgun motioned for the Trouts to get off the boat. They climbed onto the shore where the Indians clustered around them. The Yankees fan jerked the shotgun again in the direction of the village. With the Trouts in the middle, the torchlight procession started up the slope.

"Sorry, Paul," Gamay whispered. "They just came out of nowhere."

"Not your fault. I thought any threat would come from land."

"Me, too. What was the deal with the smile?"

"I couldn't think of anything else to do."

"I guess Dieter is smarter than we thought he was," Gamay said begrudgingly.

"I don't think so. Look."

As they approached the clearing in front of the huts, they saw Dieter. He was looking very pale and frightened in the torchlight and for good reason. More Indians surrounded him, their spear points inches from his ample belly. Sweat dripped off his face, but he couldn't get to it because his hands were in the air. As if he didn't have enough to worry about, two white men had their handguns leveled at his heart. They were dressed identically in cotton pants, long-sleeved T-shirts, and high-topped leather boots. Both wore what looked like wide leather linesman's belts with metal clips attached. One was a hulking slovenly type who badly needed a shave. The other was short and slim and had the dark, flat eyes of a cobra. The boss Indian handed him the Colt. The hard eyes studied the Trouts for an instant, then flicked back to the Dutchman.

"Here are your couriers, Dieter," the man said with a French accent. "Do you still deny that you tried to double-cross me?"

Dieter began to sweat even more profusely, the perspiration coming off his face like a waterfall. "I swear to God I never saw them before this morning, Victor. They simply showed up here and said Ramirez sent them to tell me about the dead Indian and to warn trouble was brewing." A sly look came into his yellow eyes. "I didn't believe them. I put them in the hut where I could keep an eye on them."

"Yes, I noticed your extraordinary security measures," Victor said with undisguised contempt. He turned to the Trouts. "Who are you?"

"My name is Paul Trout. This is my wife, Gamay. We're re searchers working with Dr. Ramirez on a river dolphin project."

"Why are you here? There are no dolphins in this part of the river."

"That's true," Paul said. "We found the body of an Indian in a canoe. Dr. Ramirez thought trouble might be brewing and wanted us to warn this village."

"Why didn't Ramirez himself come with this warning?"

"He hurt his ankle and couldn't walk. Besides, we wanted to see more of the rain forest."

"Convenient." The Frenchman hefted the Colt. "Is this part of your scientific equipment?"

"No. It belongs to Dr. Ramirez. He insisted that we take it in case we ran into trouble. From the looks of things, I'd say he was right."

Victor laughed. "Your story sounds so stupid it might actually be plausible." He appraised Gamay as only a Frenchman could look at a woman. "Gamay, an unusual name with French roots.

Gamay recognized lechery where Victor saw charm, but she was not above using her feminine attributes for leverage. "The Frenchmen I have met in the past would have introduced them selves by now."

"Ah, pardon my bad manners. It must be my association with people like this cochon here." Dieter flinched as Victor waved his pistol barrel under the Dutchman's nose. "My name is Victor Arnaud. This is my assistant, Carlo," he said, indicating his silent companion. "We are employed by a European cartel that is seeking the acquisition of rare biological substances from the rain forest." "You're botanists, then, like Dr. Ramirez?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "The work is too rigorous at this point for botanists. We have a working knowledge of biology, but we are the advance collection team who will bring back interesting specimens for the scientists to analyze. They will come later when we have paved the way."

"So you're looking for pharmaceuticals?" Paul ventured.

"Perhaps, as a by-product," Arnaud said. "It is no secret the next cure for cancer may be growing in the wondrous biological treasure house above our heads." He tapped his long nose, then his lips. "We are here primarily seeking fragrances for perfumes and essences, tastes for the food industry. If we come across medicinal extracts, so much the better. We have the permission of the Venezuelan government, and our operation is entirely legitimate."

Paul let his gaze drift over the ferocious-looking painted savages, the leveled guns, and the patently terrified Dieter. He didn't believe for an instant that these jungle thugs were doing anything legitimate. He didn't want to set Arnaud off by being too inquisitive, but he knew it would seem peculiar if he didn't show curiosity.

"You'll hardly be surprised if I observe that you're quite heavily armed for a scientific party," Paul said.

"Of course," Arnaud said, taking the comment in stride. "Ramirez's fears were not without foundation. You can see how dangerous the forest is. You yourself have seen a dead man." His mouth curved in an ironic smile. "You must wonder what our relationship is with this wretched creature," he said, speaking of Dieter. "He has given us the men of this village to help in our search for biological specimens. They know the forest better than anyone. He is paid handsomely, I might add."

Paul grinned. "Looks as if you're about to fire Mr. von Hoff man from his job."

"And for good reason. Even if what you have to say about yourselves is true, that you are not couriers, this does not change the fact that Dieter here tried to steal from us. We had been looking for an extremely valuable plant that could be worth mil lions, billions possibly, to the pharmaceutical, food, and perfume industry. It's quite a wonder. We were going to take samples to Europe for analysis. The natives have been using it for decades, although not for perfume, unfortunately."

"You seem to have solved your problem," Gamay said. "You have both Dieter and the specimens."

"I wish it were as simple as that," Arnaud said with an edge in his voice. "True, we have this pig, but our valuable plant samples seem to have disappeared."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"We had heard of this amazing plant from the natives, but none of them was able to locate it. We had gone far beyond our original area of operations into uncharted parts of the forest which is where we came across the Indian you were later to find dead. He had samples of the plant in his possession. We offered to pay him to show us where he got the specimens, but he re fused. We made him our guest in the hopes we could persuade him to change his mind."

Paul remembered the welts on the Indian's body. "So when he wouldn't talk, you shot him."

"Oh, no, nothing so simple as that. In fact we were doing our best to keep him alive. Dieter was in charge of providing hospitality and safeguarding the specimens. He got drunk one night and let him escape. The poor devil was shot stealing a canoe. We assumed he got away with the specimens. In which case he would have had them when you found him."

"What did these specimens look like?" Paul asked.

"Quite unimpressive, really. Small tapered leaves with red veins which give the plant its local name, blood leaf."

"We examined the contents of the Indian's bag," Paul said.

"There was a medicinal pouch full of folk medicine herbs. Nothing like you described."

"So," Arnaud said. He turned a scornful eye back to Dieter. "You said the Indian left with the plant in his possession. Who is telling the truth?"

"I don't know what they're talking about," Dieter countered. "The Indian took his bag and everything in it."

"I don't think so," Arnaud said quietly. "If they had the plant specimens, they would not have come back and acted so stupidly. I think you have what we want." He cocked his revolver. "And if you don't tell me where it is, I shall kill you."

"Then you'd never find it, Arnaud," the Dutchman said, dredging up a shred of defiance. It was bad timing. Arnaud was clearly in no mood to dally.

"True, but before I Killed you I'd turn you over to my painted friends here. They would have no compunction against skinning you like a monkey."

Color drained from Dieter's florid face. "I did not mean I would not tell you. I only meant there must be room to negotiate."

"All opportunity for negotiation has passed, regretfully. I'm tired of this affair. I'm tired of you." He raised the pistol to Dieter's lips. "I'm tired of your lying mouth."

There was a tremendous boom, and the lower half of the Dutchman's face disappeared in an explosion of crimson from the point-blank shot. The monocle popped from his unbelieving eye, and his body toppled over backward like a tree felled by a chainsaw.

The Frenchman turned the smoking gun on Paul. "As for you, I don't know if you are telling the truth or not. My instinct tells me that you are. It's very unfortunate that you happened to visit this pig. Nothing personal, but I can't let you carry away news of what has been going on." He shook his head sadly. "I assure you, I will make it quick for your beautiful wife."

Paul was light-years ahead of the Frenchman. He'd been

shocked by Dieter's summary execution, but he knew immediately what Arnaud's move meant for Gamay and him. No wit nesses. Trout's lanky body and normally languorous movements were deceptive. He could move quickly when he had to. He tensed his arms, ready to grab Arnaud's wrist and twist him to the ground. He knew that at the best he would take the bullet, but Gamay might get away in the confusion. At the worst, they would both be killed.

As Arnaud's finger tightened on the trigger and Trout pre pared to make his last-ditch move, there was a sound, half grunt, half cough, from the Indian wearing the Yankees baseball cap. He had dropped the shotgun, and now he looked down in terror at the brown wooden shaft of an oversized arrow that protruded at least two feet from the front of his chest. Its barbed point glistened with red. He made a motion to grab onto the arrow, but the tremendous hemorrhaging from the projectile took its toll, and he crumpled to the ground near Dieter's body.

Another Indian cried out. "Chulo!" A giant arrow cut him down as soon as the shout left his lips.

His companions took up the horrified chant.

"Chulo! Chulo!"

There was a strange ululating cry, and a ghastly blue-and white face appeared in the bushes. Then another, and within seconds the masklike faces seemed to be everywhere. More arrows filled the air. More Indians fell. Torches dropped or were thrown to the ground in panic.

In the darkness and confusion Paul's long arm reached over and grabbed Gamay by the wrist, shocking her out of her trance. Ducking low, they ran toward the river with the same thought. Get to the boat. In their frantic haste they almost bowled over the slender figure who stepped out of the shadows and stood in their way.

"Stop!" she said firmly.

It was Dieter's wife, Tessa.

"We're going to the boat," Gamay said. "Come with us."

"No," she said, and pointed to the river. "Look!"

In the light of the torches they carried, dozens of blue-faced men could be seen swarming ashore from large canoes.

The woman tugged at Gamay's arm. "This way is safer."

She led the Trouts out of the clearing, and they plunged into the dark forest. Bushes and thorns whipped at their legs and faces. The ululation grew fainter. They could have been at the center of the earth as far as they knew. It was just as hot and dark.

"Where are you taking us?" Gamay said, stopping to catch her breath.

"Can't stop now. Chulo come soon."

Sure enough, the strange war cry began to increase in strength. They kept moving until Dieter's wife stopped after several minutes. They were in a grove of trees, dwarfed by the huge, misshapen trunks that soared for more than a hundred feet. Tessa was barely visible in the moonlight streaming down from openings in the tree canopy. She had raised her hand. The Trouts lifted their eyes to the treetops. They saw only darkness broken here and there by the silver-gray night sky.

The woman detected their confusion, and like a teacher working with blind children, she opened their hands and placed something in them that felt like dead snakes. Thick nylon ropes. Paul remembered the belts Arnaud and his pal wore and Dieter's comment about the zeppelin. He quickly fashioned a loop around Gamay's thin waist. She hauled on the other end of the line and began to rise above the ground. Paul looked around. Dieter's wife had vanished. They were on their own.

"Keep going," he said. "I'm right behind you." He rigged an other rope around his own waist and with several strong pulls was yards off the ground. By the hard sound of breathing, Gamay was just ahead.

From below came a burst of the strange warbling cry. The torches of the Chulos appeared. The Indians threw the torches into the air, where they arced and fell like exhausted comets.

Gamay and Paul expected to be skewered by oversized arrows that could easily reach them, but they kept pulling.

Just as they thought they were out of range they looked down and saw two of the Indians lift off the ground. Of course, Paul thought. If there were two hauling ropes, there would be others as well.

Gamay yelled from above his head. "I'm at the top!"

Paul kept climbing and felt his wife's hand reach down to help him clamber onto a branch thicker than a man's waist. Grunting with effort, he pulled himself onto the limb and reached for another branch. His hand touched a smooth, rubbery surface. The pewter light from a half moon was diffused by a mist that hung over the trees, but he could see a large plat form of mesh and tubing draped like a giant spider's web over the canopy. It was an ingenious working platform, Trout thought, but he would have to save his admiration for later. Heavy breathing was coming from under their feet. Paul grabbed for his hunting knife and remembered that one of the Indians had taken it from him at the same time he was relieved of the Colt.

Gamay yelled and pointed at the rotund silhouette of a small blimp floating above their heads. There was a crack of twigs from just under their feet. The Chulos were seconds away. Paul detached himself from the lifting line and walked with some difficulty across the spongy mesh until he reached a mooring rope. He gripped the line and used his weight to pull the blimp down to where Gamay could clamber into the seat hanging under the gas bag. With her weight holding the blimp down, he climbed in next to her.

"Do you know how to operate one of these things?" Gamay said.

"Can't be too hard. Think of it as a boat. First thing you do is cast off."

Gamay had sailed the Great Lakes as a child, so the comparison was reassuring even if she didn't believe it. They quickly untied the other mooring lines. The blimp hesitated, then made

up its mind and rose slowly above the trees. They looked down and saw shadows leaping to grab the dangling lines, but the blimp was safely out of reach.

They rose high above the fog-filled valleys that stretched off in every direction and began to drift like a milkweed seed, wondering if they had simply exchanged one set of dangers for an other.