The Storm nf-10

by Clive Cussler

  Kurt reserved judgment. “How do we connect these microbots to him?”

  This time Paul answered. “According to an international patent on file, this is very close to one of his designs.”

  Kurt’s own sense of righteous anger was building, he noticed Leilani wringing her hands.

  “Is he using them for something?” Kurt asked. “Experimenting?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “Then how’d they end up in the sea?” he asked. “And more important, how’d they end up on the catamaran?”

  Paul’s guess came through. “Either they escaped from the lab like the killer bees forty years ago or Marchetti is using them for something without letting the rest of the world know.”

  Kurt clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. “We need to pay this guy a visit.”

  “I’m afraid he lives on a private island,” Paul replied.

  “That’s not going to stop me from knocking on his door. Where do I find it?”

  “That’s a rather good question,” Gamay said.

  There was an odd tone in Gamay’s voice, and Kurt wasn’t sure he followed. “Are you saying no one knows what island he lives on?”

  “No,” she told him. “Just that no one knows exactly where it is right now.”

  Kurt felt as if he and the Trouts were having two different conversations. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Marchetti is building an artificial island,” Paul explained. “He calls it Aqua-Terra. He launched the core last year and has been outfitting it ever since. But because it’s mobile, and because he chooses to stay in international waters, no one’s quite sure where he is at any given time.”

  Suddenly, Kurt remembered hearing about it. “I thought that was just a publicity stunt.”

  Leilani spoke up. “No,” she said, “it’s real. I read something about it. Six months ago it was anchored off Malé. Kimo said he wanted to see it if he got the chance.”

  “Okay,” Kurt said. “You guys find out whatever you can about these microbots. I’m putting a call in to Dirk. As soon as we track down Marchetti, I’m going to pay him a visit. I’m sure a floating island isn’t too hard to find.”

  CHAPTER 10

  JINN AL-KHALIF WALKED ACROSS THE DESERT UNDER A moonlit sky with Sabah close beside him. The sands he’d known since childhood shimmered like silver beneath his feet. They reminded him of the night his family had been attacked in the oasis more than forty years ago. A night when predators disguised as friends had slinked out of the desert and murdered his brothers and mother. It was a lesson in deception he had never forgotten. And one that seemed to be repeating itself.

  “No word from Aziz?” he asked, speaking of the Egyptian general who had promised support for his plan.

  Sabah was calm and stern in the cool night air. “Like you suspected, Aziz has reneged on his promises. He no longer has any interest in supporting us.”

  A flicker of light reached them from the distance. Out on the horizon, near the coast, a line of thunderstorms had begun to form. The rains had not yet pressed inland, but soon the desert would begin to feel the relief of unexpected showers; the final proof of his brilliance. And yet things were threatening to fall apart on the very cusp of victory.

  “Aziz is a traitor,” Jinn said, his face expressionless.

  “He is a man with his own interests,” Sabah counseled. “Like all men, he follows those that profit him. You would do well not to take offense personally.”

  “Those who break their vows offend me personally,” Jinn said. “What excuse does he give?”

  “The politics of Egypt,” Sabah said. “The military has controlled everything there for fifty years, including the most profitable businesses. But things are still in turmoil. The Muslim Brotherhood is consolidating power, and it’s dangerous for the military to support anything secular these days. Especially an outsider.”

  “But our program will help them,” Jinn insisted. “It will bring life to their deserts as well as ours.”

  “Yes,” Sabah said. “But they have the dam at Aswan, and the water in Lake Nasser behind it. They don’t need what we offer as much as the others do. Besides, Aziz is not a simple man. He knows the truth. You can bring the rain or you can withhold it. But if you bring it for the others who pay, it will fall on his country just the same.”

  Jinn considered this. It was unavoidable. “I am more than he suspects,” Jinn insisted. “I will force his hand.”

  “I warn you, Jinn, he will not turn.”

  “Then I will take my revenge.”

  Sabah did not seem pleased by this. “Perhaps this is not the time to make new enemies. At least until we have dealt with the Americans. You know they’ve found evidence of the horde on the damaged sailboat.”

  “Yes,” Jinn said, displeased with the news. “They are now hunting for Marchetti. He is their prime suspect.”

  “They will find him easily,” Sabah said. “These people from NUMA are determined. They will not hesitate to confront him.”

  “Of what concern is that to us?” Jinn said. His words dripped with arrogance and self-assuredness.

  Sabah did not seem pleased. “Do not underestimate them.”

  Jinn tried to reassure him. “I promise you, my good and faithful servant, suspicions will not be cast our way. When they find Marchetti, they will find their end and whatever lies beyond for infidels like them. Now, on to harsher business.”

  Up ahead a group of Jinn’s men stood guard around two of their own. The two sat on the ground, tied back to back, directly beside an old abandoned well. Its cavernous mouth waited, dark and gaping, surrounded by only a mud brick wall that rose less than a foot and burnished with A-frames of iron on either side that might once have supported a crossbar from which a bucket was lowered on a rope.

  Their eyes looked to Jinn, filled with fear, as they should be.

  “Have they admitted their failure?”

  The captain of the guard shook his head. “They insist they did only as ordered.”

  “You told us to attack the woman,” one of the men said. “We did as you commanded.”

  “You were supposed to attack her only as a diversion to lure the man away. He was the target, you were supposed to take him if you could, not run like cowards when he chased you. And, above all else, you were not supposed to be seen. There are now descriptions of you circulating, even a photograph from a dockside security camera. Because of that, you are no good to me anymore.”

  “The island is so small, we had nowhere to hide. We had to escape.”

  “You admit it,” Jinn said. “You took the path of cowards, the way of ease.”

  “No,” the man replied. “I swear, this was not the case. The trap did not work. The man overpowered us. We had no guns.”

  “Neither did he.”

  Jinn turned to Sabah. “What do you suggest?”

  Sabah looked at the men, and the small crowd of Jinn’s other loyalists that had gathered around.

  “They should be lashed,” Sabah said. “Covered in honey and staked to the ground. If they survive till the noon hour, they should be forgiven.”

  Jinn considered this for a moment. It would please the other men, but it might send the wrong message. One of weakness.

  “No,” he said. “We must not have pity. They have failed us due to a lack of will. Such thoughts cannot be allowed to spread to the others.”

  He stepped closer to the men. “I will take care of your families. May they live to be more noble than you.”

  He stepped back and sent a powerful kick into the first of the men. The man fell sideways, dropping over the edge of the abandoned well. For a second he hung there, suspended and held in place by the weight of the other prisoner, whom he was tied to.

  “No, Jinn,” the second man shouted. “Please! Have mercy!”

  Jinn kicked the second prisoner even harder than the first. Teeth flew along with blood and saliva. He fell backward, and both men tumbled into the w
ell, their cries echoing as they dropped. A second or two later a sickening crunch silenced them both. Not even cries of anguish followed.

  Jinn turned to the other men. Fury lined his face.

  “They have forced me to do this,” he shouted. “Let it be a lesson for all of you. Do not fall short in your tasks. The next to fail me will die slowly and more painfully, I assure you.”

  The men shrank back from him, reminded of his wrath and power.

  He stared at them and then began to walk off. Sabah fell in beside him, keeping up with his stride.

  “I’m not sure that was—”

  “Don’t question me, Sabah!”

  “I only advise you,” Sabah insisted calmly. “And my advice would be, mercy to your own and wrath to your enemies.”

  Jinn fumed as he walked. “Those who fail me are my enemies. As are those who betray me and break their promises like Aziz. The funds he’s withheld have us teetering on the brink. They have us pleading with the Chinese and the Saudis for more. I want that changed. I want Aziz groveling before us and begging for our help.”

  “And just how do you propose to do that?”

  “The dam at Aswan gives him power,” Jinn said. “Without it, Egypt could not feed itself, and Aziz would need us more than all the rest. Find me a way to bring it down.”

  Sabah paused. If Jinn was right, he was calculating the possibilities. His eyebrows rose. “There may be a way.”

  “See to it,” Jinn said. “I want that dam in ruins.”

  As Jinn spoke, the sound of thunder rumbled across the desert toward them. Lightning flashed across the sky in the distance. To Jinn, it seemed like a sign from above.

  Sabah noticed it too, but his eyes showed only concern.

  “Many will die,” he said. “Perhaps hundreds of thousands. Most of Egypt’s population lives near the banks of the Nile.”

  “Payment for Aziz’s betrayal,” Jinn said. “Their blood is on his hands.”

  Sabah nodded. “As you wish.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “IS THERE ANY FOOD SERVICE ON THIS FLIGHT?” JOE ZAVALA asked.

  Kurt chuckled as Joe complained. The two of them sat with Leilani in the passenger compartment of a Bell JetRanger. Five thousand feet below, the shimmering surface of the Indian Ocean passed. They could make out the pattern of waves, but there was no sense of movement. It was like staring at a glittering picture.

  “Seriously,” Joe added, “I’m starving.”

  The pilot, a Brit named Nigel, glanced back at Joe. “What do you think this is, mate, bloody British Airways?”

  Joe turned his attention to Kurt. “I’d like to lodge a complaint with the leader of this expedition.”

  “You shouldn’t have missed breakfast,” Kurt replied.

  “No one woke me up.”

  “Believe me, we tried,” Kurt said. “Maybe you should have let me set your alarm to steam whistle mode. Or brought along a real one.”

  Joe sat back. “This is terrible. I’ve gone from sleep-deprived to forced starvation. What’s next? Chinese water torture?”

  Kurt knew Joe’s complaining was more a way to pass the time, though from years spent traveling with him he also knew Joe could eat like a champ and never gain a pound. With such a metabolism it was entirely possible that he might whither and fade away after a single day without food.

  He turned his attention forward. “Well, feast your eyes on this,” he said. “Aqua-Terra two o’clock low.”

  From five miles out the island was easy to see, like a giant oversize oil platform. As they flew closer, it became obvious that there was some real genius to Marchetti’s design.

  Five hundred feet wide and nearly two thousand feet long, Aqua-Terra was truly a sight to behold. To begin with, the island itself wasn’t round—like so many floating cities envisioned by futuristic architects—it was teardrop-shaped, narrowing to a point in one direction while sporting a wide, curving border on the back end.

  “Amazing,” Leilani whispered.

  “Bloody huge,” the pilot said.

  “I just hope they have a food court down there,” Joe replied.

  Kurt laughed and glanced toward Leilani. “Are you okay?”

  She looked pensive and determined, like she was about to go into combat. She nodded yes but seemed as if she’d rather be somewhere else. He decided to distract her by talking about the island.

  “See that ring around the outside of the island?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “That’s a breakwater made up of steel-and-concrete barriers. They sit on powerful hydraulic pistons, and, from what I’ve read, when a big wave hits, they’re driven back, taking the brunt of the force like shock absorbers. When the wave disperses, they spring back into position.”

  “What’s all that stuff over on the far side?” she asked, pointing.

  Kurt gazed in the direction she indicated. An artificial beach sat next to a half-circular cutout in the hull. In this section the breakwaters overlapped but didn’t line up. Several small boats and a twin-engine seaplane were docked against a jetty.

  “Looks like an inlet,” he said.

  “Every island has to have a harbor,” Joe added. “Maybe they have a few restaurants on the waterfront.”

  “No one could ever accuse you of lacking focus,” Kurt said.

  The helicopter turned and began to descend. Kurt heard Nigel talking with an air controller over the radio. He looked back toward the island.

  Large sections were obviously still under construction, exposed steel and scaffolding confirmed that. Other sections seemed closer to completion, and the rear of the island looked all but finished, including a pair of ten-story structures shaped like pyramids with a helipad suspended dramatically between them like a bridge.

  “Could someone like this really have been involved in what happened to my brother?”

  “The leads point this way,” Kurt said.

  “But this Marchetti has everything,” she said, “why would he do something so horrible?”

  “We’re going to do our best to find out.”

  She nodded, and Kurt looked back out the window. As the helicopter began to turn, he focused on a row of soaring white structures that sprouted along each side of the teardrop-shaped island. They were widest at ground level, narrowing with a gentle rake toward the top.

  They reminded him of oversize tails plucked from mothballed 747s. He quickly realized why. They were airfoils, mechanical sails, designed to catch the wind. He watched as they changed their angle slightly, turning in unison.

  In the center of the island he saw a rectangular swath of green, complete with trees, grass and hills. It reminded him of New York’s Central Park. On either side were long, wide strips of land on which wheat seemed to be growing.

  At the forward end, banks of solar panels reflected the sun while a group of large windmills turned with gentle grace.

  Nigel turned to Kurt. “They’re denying us permission to land.”

  Kurt had expected that. He reached over and flipped a switch. A canister he’d rigged up to the tail boom began to emit black smoke. He doubted it would fool anybody for long, but it couldn’t hurt.

  “Looks like we’re having an emergency,” he said. “Tell them we have no choice but to set down safely or crash.”

  As the pilot relayed the message, Kurt grinned at Leilani. “Have to let us land now.”

  “Are you always so incorrigible?” she asked.

  Joe replied, “From what I’ve heard Kurt here was the type to skip school and sign his own notes and have all the teachers fawning over him when he came back from his ‘illness.’”

  Leilani smiled. “I call that resourceful.”

  With a line of smoke trailing from it, the JetRanger angled for the helipad that bridged the gap between the roof of the pyramid-like buildings. The descent was smooth, almost too smooth.

  “Make it look good,” Kurt said.

  The pilot nodded, he waggled the
stick, shaking the copter to simulate some type of trouble, then stabilized as they got closer and safely touched down on top of the big yellow H.

  Kurt pulled off his headset, popped open the door, and stepped out. Stretching his legs, he gazed at the sights around him. It was like being on a rooftop restaurant and getting the best view in the house.

  The sails he’d seen were at least a hundred feet tall, all marked with a bright blue stripe and the name aqua-terra. A scent lingered in the air, but it was so out of place, it took a moment for Kurt to recognize it: fresh-cut grass.

  Another sight heading his way appeared similarly out of place. Wearing orange slacks, a gray shirt and a flowing purple robe decorated with green-and-blue paisley was a man who looked a lot like Elwood Marchetti, and a little like a peacock.

  A thick brown beard on his face and circular red sunglasses completed his dizzying ensemble.

  A thin man with strawlike blond hair trailed behind him. He wore a business suit and appeared to be upset.

  “Mr. Marchetti, you shouldn’t be greeting these people,” the man said. “They have no right to land here.”

  Kurt looked past Marchetti to the suit. “We had engine trouble.”

  “A convenient time to get it.”

  Kurt smiled. “I’ll say. Fortunately for us, your island was right here.”

  “It’s a lie,” the man said. “They’re obviously here as spies or to attempt an audit.”

  Marchetti shook his head and turned to the aide. He put his hands on the man’s arms and gripped him like an old-time revival preacher, healing someone from the crowd.

  “It grieves me,” Marchetti began. “Truly grieves me. To think I’ve made you so paranoid and yet not given you the wisdom you need to see clearly.”

  “Blake Matson,” he said, directing the aide’s attention back to Kurt. “This isn’t the man. This fellow doesn’t even resemble the man. The man comes in boats and ships, he brings guns and lawyers and accountants. He doesn’t wear boots and bring beautiful young women with him.”

  Marchetti was taking in Leilani as he spoke.

  “Excuse me,” Kurt said. “But what on earth are you babbling about?”