Lost City nf-5

by Clive Cussler

  "You really showed them that time," "Zavala yelled over the racket. "Emil was starting to irk me." "Did you get him?"

  "Emil? Unfortunately, no. I missed Sebastian, too. But I nailed the guy standing next to him."

  "That is unfortunate," Zavala said, raising his voice a few decibels. "Brilliant strategy, though. Maybe they'll run out of bullets."

  Bullets were starting to punch through the floor of the booth. Austin knew he had to stop the shooting and buy time. "Do you have a white hanky?" he asked Zavala.

  "This is a funny time to be blowing your nose," Zavala said, ducking as a round ricocheted off the wall. He saw from Austin's face that he wasn't joking and said, "I've got my Mexican 'do-rag." " Zavala fished his multipurpose red bandanna out of his back pocket and handed it over.

  "This will do," Austin said, tying the bandanna to the gun barrel. He poked the impromptu flag out the door and waved it.

  The gunfire again stopped. Emil's sharp-edged laughter echoed throughout the tunnel.

  "What is that rag, Austin?" he said. "I'm no bull to be taunted by your antics."

  "I didn't have a white flag," Austin shouted down.

  "A white flag? Don't tell me you and your friend are prepared to come to terms with your fate?"

  Austin cocked his ear, listening. He thought he heard a distant whispering, like the surf along the shore. But his ears were still ringing from the gunfire and he couldn't be sure.

  "You misunderstood, Fauchard. I'm not ready to surrender."

  "Then why are you waving that ridiculous piece of cloth?"

  "I wanted to say good-bye before the freight train comes through."

  "Have you gone mad, Austin?"

  The whispering had become a low rumble.

  Emil gave the order to start firing again.

  Bullets whined and splattered around their heads in a nonstop crescendo. The concentrated gunfire was punching through the walls. In another few minutes, the booth would beAno more protection than the slice of Swiss cheese that it was starting to resemble.

  Then the firing stopped abruptly.

  The gunmen had felt the vibration. With the guns silent, they, too, had picked up the rumble of distant thunder.

  Austin got to his feet and stepped out onto the catwalk. Emil had a puzzled look on his face. He looked up, saw Austin staring down at him and knew he had been bested.

  "You've won for now, Austin," he yelled up, shaking his fist in defiance, "but you haven't heard the last from the Fauchards."

  Austin grinned, stepped back into the booth, grabbed onto one of the metal legs supporting the console table and told Zavala to do the same.

  Emil shouted one last oath, and then he turned and he and his gang of thugs ran for their lives. Sebastian lurched after the others.

  It was too late.

  Seconds later, the wave hit Fauchard and his men with an explosion of blue water that swept them away like a giant broom. Heads bobbed for an instant in the cold foam, arms flailed ineffectually. Sebastian's face was pale against the dark water. Then he was gone along with Emil and his men.

  Unlike their previous experience, when Austin and Zavala stayed high and dry inside the undamaged watertight booth, this time the cascading water flowed in through the broken windows, flooded the control room and tried to pull Austin and Zavala from their anchor. They hung on with every ounce of strength.

  Just when their lungs were ready to burst, the main force of the wave spent itself and the water began to subside.

  They stood on shaky legs and peered through the jagged-edged framework, which was all that was left of the window.

  Zavala looked down on the river flowing under their feet, amazement on his dark features. "How did you know that high tide was coming?"

  "I opened and closed a few sluice gates in another part of the system and diverted water this way."

  Zavala grinned and said, "I hope that Fauchard and his pals are all washed up."

  "My guess is that they're feeling a bit flushed by now," Austin said. Miraculously, the control monitor was in a secure housing and had escaped damage. Austin punched in some keyboard commands. The water level dropped until the rushing river became a narrow stream. Both men were shivering in their wet clothes by then. They had to get out of the tunnels to someplace dry and warm before hypothermia set in. They climbed down the ladder. This time, no one tried to stop them.

  They plodded through the tunnels with no idea of where they were going. Their teeth had started to chatter from the cold. The batteries in their flashlights were getting low, but they kept on because

  they had no alternative. Just when they were about to give up all hope, they saw an object ahead.

  Zavala yelled with joy. "Fifi!"

  The Citroen had been picked up by the wave and deposited sideways in the tunnel. It was covered with mud and the paint was scraped off in a dozen places where it must have banged against the walls. Austin opened the door. The map was floating in a few inches of water on the floor. The key was still in the ignition. He tried to start the car but the engine wouldn't turn over.

  Zavala fiddled around in the hood and told Austin to try it again.

  This time the motor started.

  Zavala got in and said, "Loose battery cable."

  It took a half hour of driving through the tunnel grid before they figured out where they were, then another half hour to find their way back through the system. The car was running on gas vapors when they saw gray daylight ahead, and moments later they drove out of the mountain.

  "What next?" Zavala said.

  Austin didn't even have to think about it. "Chateau Fauchard."

  WHEN SKYE WAS a girl her father had taken her to the Cathedrale de Notre Dame and she had seen her first gargoyle. The grotesque face leering down from the ramparts looked like a monster from her worst nightmares. She had calmed down after her father explained that gargoyles were nothing more than rain spouts Skye had wondered why such talented sculptors could not have fashioned things of beauty, but she had put aside her childhood fears. Now, as she blinked her eyes open, the gargoyle of her restless dreams was back. Even worse, it was talking to her.

  "Welcome back, mademoiselle," said the cruel mouth only inches away. "We have missed you."

  The face belonged to Marcel, the bullet-headed man in charge of the private army at Chateau Fauchard. He spoke again.

  "I'll be back in fifteen minutes," he said. "Do not keep me waiting."

  She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea swept through her body. When she looked again, he was gone.

  Skye glanced around and saw that she was in the chamber where she'd changed into the cat costume for the Fauchard masquerade ball. She recalled walking up to her apartment building. She dug deeper into her recollection and remembered the lost American couple, the bee sting on her backside and the slide into oblivion.

  Dear God, she had been fydnapped.

  She sat up in the bed and swung her legs over the side. There was a brassy taste in her mouth, probably the remnant of the chemical that had been injected into her veins to render her unconscious. She took a deep breath and stood up. The room began to swirl around her. She staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the sink.

  Skye gazed at her reflection, hardly recognizing the face in the mirror. Her face was ghostly pale, her hair lank and straggly. She felt better after she had rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. She brushed her hair back with her fingers and patted the wrinkles out of her clothes as best she could.

  She was ready a few minutes later when Marcel opened the door without knocking and beckoned for her to follow. They walked down the long carpeted corridors, eventually passing through the gauntlet of faces lining the walls of the portrait gallery. She looked for the painting of Jules Fauchard, but it was gone, leaving only blank wall in its place. Then they were standing outside Madame Fauchard's office.

  Marcel gave Skye an odd smile, and then he knocked gently and opened the door. He pushed Sk
ye inside. Skye saw that she was not alone. A blond woman with her back to Skye sat at Madame Fauchard's desk, staring out the window. She swiveled around in the chair at the click of the door shutting and stared at Skye.

  The woman was in her forties, with creamy skin set off by probing gray eyes. She parted her red, almost voluptuous lips. "Good afternoon, mademoiselle. We've awaited your return. You left in such a spectacular fashion."

  Skye's mind reeled. She wondered if she were still feeling the aftereffects of the knockout drug.

  "Sit," the woman said, pointing to a chair in front of the desk.

  Skye obeyed, moving like a zombie.

  The woman regarded Skye with amusement.

  "What's wrong? You seem distracted."

  Skye was more confused than distracted. The voice that came from the woman's mouth was that of Madame Fauchard. It had lost its cracked, old lady quality, but there was no mistaking the hard-edged words. Crazy thoughts ran through Skye's mind. Did Racine have a daughter? Maybe this was a clever ventriloquist.

  Finally, she found her own voice.

  "Is this some sort of trick?"

  "No trick at all. What you see is what there is."

  "Madame Fauchard?" The words came out falteringly.

  "One and the same, my dear," she said with a wicked smile. "Only now I am young and you are old."

  Skye was still skeptical. "You must give me the name of your plastic surgeon."

  Heat came to the woman's eyes, but only for a moment. She rose from her chair and came around to the other side of the desk with silken movements. She leaned over, took Skye's hand and placed it on her cheek.

  "Tell me if you still think this is the work of a surgeon."

  The flesh was warm and firm, and the skin was creamy without a trace of wrinkles.

  "Impossible," Skye said in a whisper.

  Madame Fauchard let the hand drop, then stood upright and returned to her chair. She tented her long, slender fingers so that Skye could see that they were no longer gnarled.

  "Don't worry," she said. "You're not going mad. I am the same person who invited you and Mr. Austin to my costume party. He's well, I trust."

  "I don't know," Skye said, guardedly. "I haven't seen him in days. How "

  "How did I turn from a cackling old crone into a young beauty?" she said, a dreamy look in her eyes. "A long, long story. It would not have been so long had it not been for Jules absconding with the helmet," she said, spitting out the name with bitterness. "We could have saved decades of research."

  "I don't understand."

  "You're the antique arms expert," Madame Fauchard said. "Tell me what you know about the helmet."

  "It's very old. Five hundred years or possibly older. The steel was of extremely high quality. It may have been made with iron from a meteorite."

  Madame Fauchard arched an eyebrow.

  "Very good. The helmet was made with star metal and this strength saved the lives of more than one Fauchard in battle. It was melted and recast through the centuries and was passed down through the family to the true leaders of the Fauchards. It rightfully belonged to me, not my brother Jules."

  The words took a second to sink in, but when they did, Skye said, "Your brother?"

  "That's right. Jules was a year younger than me."

  Skye tried to do the calculation, but her thoughts were whirling around in her head. "That would make you "

  "Never ask a lady her age," Madame Fauchard said, with a languid smile. "But I'll save you the trouble. I'm past the century mark."

  Skye shook her head in disbelief. "I don't believe it."

  "I'm hurt by your skepticism," Madame Fauchard said, but her expression belied her statement. "Would you like to hear the details?"

  Skye was torn between her scientific curiosity and her revulsion.

  "I saw what happened to Cavendish because he knew too much of your business."

  "Lord Cavendish was a bore as well as a blabbermouth. But you flatter yourself, my dear. When you're as old as I am, you learn to keep things in perspective. You're no good to me dead. Live bait is always more effective."

  "Bait. For what?"

  "Not what. Whom. Kurt Austin, of course."

  SHORTLY AFTER FIVE O'CLOCK, the workers at the Fauchard vineyards ended the day that had started with the rising sun. As the men headed back to their crude do/mitories, a fleet of dump trucks laden with newly picked grapes rolled along the dirt roads that ran through the rolling hills and converged on the gate in the electrified fence. A bored guard waved the line through the gate and the trucks headed to a shed where the grapes would be offloaded for crushing, fermentation and bottling.

  As the last truck slowed to a halt near the shed, two figures jumped off and darted into the woods. Satisfied that they had not been seen, Austin and Zavala brushed the dirt off their clothes and tried to wipe the grape juice off their faces and hands, but it only made the stain worse.

  Zavala spit out a mouthful of damp earth. "That's the last time I let Trout talk me into one of his crazy schemes. We look like a purple version of the Blue Man Group!"

  Austin was picking twigs out of his hair. "You must admit it was

  a stroke of genius. Who'd expect anyone to disguise themselves as a bunch of grapes?"

  Trout's plan was deceptively simple. He and Gamay had taken another tour of the vineyards. This time Austin and Zavala were hunkered down in the backseat. The Trouts stopped and got out to say hello to Marchand, the foreman they had met on their first visit to the Fauchard vineyards. As they chatted, the dump truck pulled up in front of the car. Austin and Zavala waited until the truck was loaded, then they slipped out of the car, climbed onto the back of the moving vehicle and burrowed into the grapes.

  The dark woods were like something out of a Tolkien novel. Austin carried a device Gandalf the wizard would have envied. The miniaturized Global Positioning System could put them within yards of the chateau. Using a compass in the initial stages of their journey, they struck out through the woods in the general direction of the chateau.

  The woods were thick with clawing brambles and foot-catching underbrush, as if the Fauchards had somehow extended their malevolence into the flora surrounding their ancestral home. As the sun sank lower in the sky, the woods grew darker. Traveling in the dusky light, the two men stumbled over roots, and needle-sharp thorns caught at their clothes. Eventually, they broke out of the forest onto a dirt path that led to a network of well-used trails. Austin frequently consulted the GPS and it proved its worth when he saw a glow through the trees from the turrets of Chateau Fauchard.

  At the edge of the woods, they crouched in the trees and watched a lone guard make his way along the edge of the moat. When the guard rounded the far wall of the chateau, Austin set the timing mode on his watch.

  "We're in luck," Zavala said. "Only one sentry."

  "I don't like it," Austin said. "Nothing in my brief acquaintance

  with the Fauchard family leads me to believe that they treat their own security lightly."

  Even more suspicious, the drawbridge was down and the portcullis up. The water in the strange war-the med fountain tinkled musically. The tranquil scene stood in stark contrast to his last visit, when he'd driven the Rolls into the moat under a hail of bullets. It seemed all too inviting.

  "You think it's a trap?" Zavala said. "All that's missing is a big hunk of cheese." "What are our options?"

  "Limited. We can turn around or keep moving and try to stay one step ahead of the bad guys."

  "I've had my fill of grapes," Zavala said. "You didn't say anything about an exit strategy."

  Austin clapped Zavala on the shoulder. "Here you are, about to take an exciting tour of Chateau Fauchard, and you're already thinking of leaving." .

  "Sorry I'm not as blase as you are. I was hoping for a more dignified exit than driving a Rolls-Royce into a moat."

  Austin cringed at the memory. "Okay. Here's the plan. We will offer to trade Emil for Skye."


  "Not bad," Zavala said. "There's only one little hitch. You flushed Emil down the drain."

  "Madame Fauchard doesn't know that. By the time she finds out, we will be long gone."

  "Shame on you, bluffing an old lady." Zavala pursed his lips in thought. "I like it, but what if she doesn't bite? Is that when we call in the gendarmes?"

  "I wish it were that easy, old pal. Picture this. The cops knock on the chateau door and the Fauchards say, "Search all you want." I've been in those catacombs, you could hide an army in that labyrinth. It could take weeks to find Skye."

  "And time isn't on our side."

  A thoughtful look came to Austin's eyes. "An hour is worth a hundred years," he murmured, checking his watch.

  "Is that from one of your philosophy books?" Zavala said. Austin was a student of philosophy and the bookshelves in his Potomac boat-house were crammed with the works of the great thinkers.

  "No," he replied thoughtfully. "It's something Dr. MacLean said to me."

  The guard emerged from the other side of the chateau, cutting their discussion short. Austin clicked his watch again. The sentry had taken sixteen minutes to perambulate the chateau.

  As soon as the guard started on another round, Austin signaled Zavala. They dashed across the open space and followed the moat to the arched stone bridge, then sprinted across the drawbridge into the courtyard. In their black clothes, they were almost invisible in the shadows along the base of the wall. Lights glowed in the first-floor windows of the chateau, but no guards patrolled the grounds, further raising Austin's suspicions.

  He was sure his instincts were on target when he and Zavala came to the gate guarding the staircase to the ramparts. When he and Skye had inspected the gate, it was locked. Now it was wide open, an invitation to climb to the wall and cross over a narrow bridge to the turret. Austin had other plans. He led the way across the cobblestones to the rear of the chateau and descended a short stone staircase to an ironbound wooden door.

  Austin tried the handle. The door was locked. He extracted a portable drill and a handsaw from his pack, drilled several holes in the door and sawed out a circular section. He reached in through the hole, raised the bar and opened the door. The putrid mustiness of the catacombs welled through the doorway like the exhalation of a corpse. They switched on their electric torches, stepped inside and closed the door behind them.