Blue & Gold

by Clive Cussler

  “Agent Gomez was nice enough to have it waiting for me. It’s got a hot engine and all kinds of radio gear I used to let our friends know where you were. I’m going to hate to give it up. Did Mr. Pedralez say anything?”

  Austin held up the pistol case. “Yeah, he told me the next time I came to Tijuana to be sure these things are loaded.” He’s killed people for less.”

  “Look, Agent Gomez, we haven’t cornered the market on foolhardiness,” Austin said. “We tried other avenues first. The Mexican police say the steam pipes caused the blast. Case closed. We thought the owner might have something to tell us, so we called the Department of Commerce. They did an uh-oh, said the plant was owned by Enrico, and suggested that we get in touch with Gomez in the San Diego field office. That’s you. Now we’d like to take the next step. Does he have an office in the U.S.?”

  “He won’t cross the border. He knows we’ll grab him.”

  “Then we’ll have to go to him.”

  “This won’t be easy. Pedralez used to be a Mexican federal cop, and half the police are on his payroll. They protect him and turn over informants, competitors, or anyone else who might cause him trouble.”

  Gomez unlocked a drawer in his desk. He pulled out two thick files and laid them on the desk blotter. “This is the file on Enrico’s dirty stuff, and the other has information on his legal operations. He has to launder that dirty money somewhere, so he’s set up or bought legitimate businesses on both sides of the Mexican-American border. The tortilla business is the leader. Tortillas have become worth millions of dollars since the U.S. market opened up and people on this side of the border started eating the things. A few companies control the business. Just look in your supermarket if you don’t believe me. Enrico used his government connections, sprinkled the bribes around to get a piece of the action.” He pushed the files across the desk. “I can’t let this go out of the office, but you’re welcome to read it.”

  Austin thanked him and took the file into a small conference room. He and Zavala sat on opposite sides of a table. Austin gave Joe the file on the legal businesses, told him to shout if he saw anything interesting, and begin to skim through the other file. He wanted a measure of the man he might be dealing with. The more he read, the less he liked. He hadn’t thought so much evil could be poured into one skin. Enrico was responsible for hundreds of murders, and every one of the executions had its own grisly touch. He was glad when Zavala gave him the excuse to halt his reading.

  “Got it!” Joe said. He rustled a couple of sheets of paper. “These are background and surveillance reports on the tortilla factory. He’s owned it a couple of years. The FBI went down to take a peek. Didn’t see anything suspicious. Sounds like they took the same tour we did, except for my little side trip. Report says it seems like a legitimate operation.”

  “Nothing about the underwater facility?”

  Zavala frowned. “Nope. Not a word.”

  “I’m not surprised. The installation could have been floated in at night.”

  “Plausible. How about your file? Did you learn anything?”

  “Yeah, that he’s one nasty SOB. We still have to talk to him.”

  “Gomez says it’s impossible. Got any ideas?”

  “I might have.” He handed Zavala a piece of paper from his file. “This is a list of his hobbies. Wine, women, racehorses, gambling, the usual things. Something caught my eye.”

  Zavala saw it right away. “He collects antique firearms. Sounds like someone else I know.”

  Austin smiled. He was a serious collector of dueling pistols. The walls of the old Potomac boathouse where he made his home were covered with the exquisitely fashioned instruments of death. He kept the most valuable pieces in a vault and had one of the finest collections in the country.

  “You remember the new pieces I bought for my collection the day before our race? They’re a fine pair, but they duplicate a brace I have. I was planning to use them in trade with another collector.”

  Chapter 14

  The scene was so awe inspiring in its terrible beauty that Trout almost forgot the predicament he and Gamay were in. Paul sat on a rocky ledge about twenty feet above the lake, long legs dangling down, swiveling his head back and forth to take in the whole panoramic sweep. He had to strain his neck to see the tops of the falls. Multiple rainbows arced over the five cascades as the sun caught the droplets of water in the twisting vapor cloud that rose for hundreds of feet. The roar was like that of a hundred distant loco motives at full steam. Trout wasn’t a religious man, but if anything was the Hand of God, he was looking at it.

  A groan ended his reverie. “What are you doing?” Gamay said with a yawn. She was lying nearby in the shade of a tree.

  “Thinking what a great place this would be to build a hotel.”

  “Ugh,” Gamay said with a scowl. She sat up and wiped the sweat from her face. “Make sure you have air conditioning.”

  It had rained briefly an hour before, and the sun returned with a vengeance. Their perch was well shaded by trees and bushes, and they slept for a time, but there was no way to escape the suffocating humidity. Paul was the first to awake.

  “I’ll get you some water,” Paul said. He fashioned a palm leaf into a cup, climbed down to the lake, and scooped up water in the makeshift container. He spilled half the contents bringing it to Gamay, who was trying to pick blades of grass from her ratty looking hair. She guzzled the water, her eyes closed in bliss, then passed what was left to Paul.

  “Thanks,” she said with a smile. “That was refreshing. I hope you won’t mind if I take a dip in our water supply.” She climbed down to the lake, plunged in, and swam out several strokes.

  Paul was thinking of joining Gamay after he had quenched his thirst, when a movement near the river outlet caught his eye. He called out a warning, but Gamay couldn’t hear him because of the rumble of the falls. He climbed down, half falling, to the water’s edge and dove in. He swam out to Gamay, who was peacefully floating on her back, and grabbed her by her T-shirt.

  Gamay was startled at first, then she laughed. “Hey, this is no time to get playful.”

  “Hush,” he said. “Get back to shore. Hurry.”

  The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. Without a further word Gamay swam quickly to shore with Paul right behind her. She started to climb onto the ledge. Paul pulled her down into a bush. He held his finger to his lips and pointed toward the lake.

  Gamay squinted through the leaves and tensed as the sun glinted off wet paddles and she saw flashes of blue and white. Chulo. Paul had seen the four canoes emerge from the river into the lake. They would have run right into Gamay. The canoes were moving in single file. Each canoe held three Indians. Two were paddling, and the other was riding shotgun, his bow resting across his lap. They seemed intent on where they were going and unaware that they were being watched.

  The Indians passed within a few yards of the hiding place, so close the beads of sweat on their rippling muscles were clearly visible. They moved silently across the lake until foggy tendrils enveloped them. An instant later they disappeared into the vapor cloud.

  “That was some vanishing act,” Paul said, puffing his cheeks out.

  “Now we know why they’re called the People of the Mist,” Gamay said.

  Using his six-foot-eight height to good advantage, Paul stood cautiously and made sure there were no stragglers. “All clear,” he said. “We’d better think of getting out of here. I still have the Swiss Army knife. Maybe we could fashion a raft with logs and vines and float our way out.”

  Gamay was staring toward the mists. “I have a better idea.” She paused. “It may be a little risky.”

  ‘A little risky?” Paul chuckled. “Don’t forget I’m well acquainted with the way your mind works. You’re about to suggest that we follow those guys and steal a canoe.”

  “Why not? Look, this is their home turf, so they won’t expect it. With all due respect for your talents with a Swiss Army knife, I can’
t see us fashioning a boat that will carry the two of us God knows how many miles downriver without sinking or running into more of those characters. It was tough enough traveling in an airboat. They can’t paddle those canoes all day. They must pull them up somewhere on shore. We just find them, wait until dark, and slip one away. They’ll never even miss it, I bet.”

  Amusement crept into Paul’s large hazel eyes. “Do I detect a hint of scientific curiosity in your proposal?”

  “Okay, I admit there’s more here than simply a matter of survival. Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered about this high-tech tribe and the talk of a white goddess.”

  “I was wondering if they have any food,” Paul said, patting his stomach. He chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass “Seriously, we’re in something of a pickle and really don’t have many choices. We don’t know where we are and aren’t sure how to get out of here. We have no supplies. As you pointed out, this is their territory. I suggest that we reconnoiter. We’re strangers in a strange land. We go slow, and if the situation looks too dangerous, we get out in a hurry. ”

  “Agreed,” Gamay said. “Now, as for food, I’m fresh out of granola bars. I’ve been watching the birds eating the berries on that bush. I don’t see any dead birds, so they’re probably not poison.”

  “Berries it is,” Paul said. “They can’t be that bad.”

  Trout was wrong. The berries were so bitter it was impossible to eat even one without puckering up. With empty stomachs, the Trouts struck off along the shore of the lake. At one point where the mud looked like quicksand, they climbed to higher ground and stumbled onto a footpath. The trail was overgrown and looked as if it hadn’t seen any recent use. Still, they proceeded cautiously, ready to dive into the bushes if they encountered anyone.

  They trekked along the path for about a mile until they came to a place where mists from the lake rolled into the forest like vapor from a fog machine. The leafy growth was as wet as if it had been pelted by a rain shower, and the roar of the falls was like the beating of a thousand kettledrums. They were aware that the same noise that muffled their movement could drown out the approach of a marching army. ‘The air became chilly and so damp that they put their hands over their noses so they wouldn’t gag. The visibility was only a few feet, and they kept their heads low so their eyes could pick out the path.

  Then, suddenly, they were out of the forest. If they were expecting to burst out on a beautiful valley like wayfarers in Shangri-la, they were disappointed. The forest was no different on the other side of the mists. The path no longer led along the lake but instead veered off along a tributary that the canoes must have followed.

  After a few minutes Gamay stopped and shook her head. “Notice anything strange about this little river?”

  Paul walked over to the edge of the banking. “Yes, it’s much too straight to be natural. It looks as if someone has taken an existing stream and marsh and cleared them out with shovel and pick.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Gamay started walking again. “As I said, the Chulo are most fascinating.”

  They plodded ahead for several hours. They had fashioned hats from palm leaves and stopped frequently to quench their thirst from the river. At one point they waited out a shower. They became more tense and watchful as the path widened, and they began to see the imprints of a bare foot in the soft, dark earth.

  After a short discussion, they decided to follow the river for a while longer, then hide in the forest until dark. They were dog tired and needed to replenish their energy. As they plodded along they encountered a path coming in from the forest to their right. It was made of thousands of flat stones and reminded Gamay of the Maya or Inca roads. It was as good as anything she had seen on the Appian Way. Their curiosity got the best of them, and they followed the paved path for five more minutes. They were drawn on even farther by a gleam through the trees.

  The walkway widened into a perfectly circular clearing about fifty feet in diameter and also surfaced entirely with stones. In the center of the clearing was a large object.

  “I’ll be damned,” they said in unison.

  The jet plane was in two sections. The front was intact, but the passenger cabin was virtually gone. The tail section was in fair shape and had been moved directly behind the cockpit, giving the aircraft a short, stubby look. The paint was old and faded and not overgrown by vines or lichen as might be expected.

  They peered through the cracked cockpit windows, expecting to see skeletons. The seats were empty. Directly in front of the cockpit was a shallow pit holding the blackened ashes of fires and charred bones of small animals. Carved totems as tall and thick as a man ringed the stone circle. The figures adorning each post were different. Carved in dark wood at the top of each pole was a winged woman with her hands cupped in front of her. It was the same figure carved onto the medallion they had found on the dead Indian.

  “It looks like some sort of shrine,” Gamay whispered. She went over to the ash pit. “This must be where they burned sacrifices. Mostly bones from small animals.”

  “That’s certainly reassuring,” Paul said. He looked up at the sun, then checked his watch. “They’ve got the plane positioned so that it acts like a sundial. It reminds me of the layout at Stonehenge, with the concentric rings that acted as a celestial calendar.”

  Gamay put her hand on the plane’s nose. “Does this blue and-white color scheme seem familiar to you?”

  “What do you know? The Chulo national colors.”

  Gamay’s eyes widened as she looked past Paul, who had his back to the forest.

  “That’s not the only thing around here that’s blue and white.”

  Paul turned and saw about twenty Chulo Indians emerge from the trees, their faces and bodies painted the colors of sky and bone. He cursed himself for allowing the plane’s discovery to push caution aside. As silently as the ghosts they were reputed to be, the Indians surrounded them. There was no way to run. Paul and Gamay were completely boxed in.

  The Indians advanced with their spears held high, but then they did a peculiar thing. They opened the circle. One Indian indicated with his spear that they were to go through the opening. The Trouts glanced at each other for mutual reassurance, then, with the silent Indians flanking them like a military honor guard, they marched from the shrine and followed the path along the river.

  The path widened into a road that took them to a stockade palisade. They made their way toward a gate wide enough to drive a truck through. From a distance they had seen on either side of the gate tall wooden staffs that had knobs on the top like flagpoles. As they neared the entrance Gamay squeezed her husband’s hand even tighter.

  “Paul, look,” she said.

  He followed her gaze. “Oh, hell.”

  The knobs were in fact human heads. Their faces had been baked brown like apples in the sun, and the birds and insects had been making inroads, but it was still possible to pick out Dieter’s features. He wasn’t smiling. Neither was Arnaud or his taciturn assistant, Carlo. The fourth head belonged to their Indian henchman. Trout recognized him by the New York Yankees baseball cap.

  Then they were through the gates, past the grisly decorations. Behind the fence were several dozen long thatched huts clustered along the river. No women or children were visible. Their guards had lowered their spears and unstrung their arrows and were using the presence of their bodies to keep the Trouts from trying anything foolish.

  Paul said, “Look at that water wheel. We have them like that in New England.”

  Water had been diverted from the river and was flowing through wooden chutes to turn a wheel. They didn’t get the chance for a closer look. Their guards directed them toward a structure at the center of the settlement. It was four times bigger than any of the surrounding huts, and the walls were made of putty-colored clay rather than saplings. They stopped in front of a portal that looked like a large, gaping mouth. Hung over the entrance was the bladed fan from a jet engine. The Indians closed ranks behind them
, put their weapons aside, and kneeled with their noses touching the earth.

  “Now what?” Gamay said with astonishment at the sudden submissiveness of the fierce Indians.

  “I wouldn’t advise running for it. We wouldn’t get ten feet before they nailed us. My guess is they want us to go in. After you, madame.”

  “We’ll go in together.”

  They walked hand-in-hand through the doorway into the dim interior. They passed through two smaller rooms, then into a large space. At the far end of the hut, visible in a shaft of light coming through a hole cut in the roof, was a seated figure. The figure raised its arm and beckoned for them to approach. They moved ahead slowly. The floor was made of wood, not dirt like the huts they had been in before.

  The figure sat on a throne made of what looked like an airplane seat. With the exception of two tanned and shapely legs, most of the body was hidden behind a blue-and-white oval mask that could have come out of a nightmare. It was painted with huge eyes and a wide mouth with sharp-pointed shark’s teeth.

  The Trouts stood nervously in front of the bizarre figure, not knowing what to do. Then two hands came from behind the mask and lifted it off.

  “Whew, this thing is hot,” the beautiful woman behind the ugly mask said in English. She set the mask aside, cocked her head at Paul, then at Gamay.

  “The Drs. Trout, I presume?”

  Gamay was the first to speak through their astonishment. “How do you know our names?”

  “We white goddesses see all and know all.” She laughed when she saw the puzzlement deepen even more. “I’m a poor host, teasing my guests.”

  She smiled and clapped her hands lightly. The Trouts were in for another surprise. The beaded curtains behind the throne parted with a rustle, and Dieter’s wife, Tessa, stepped out.

  Chapter 15

  The law office of Francis Xavier Hanley was on the twelfth floor of a blue glass tower that looked out onto San Diego Harbor. Austin and Zavala stepped from the elevator into the office lobby and gave the attractive young receptionist their names. She punched a button on her inter com and after a murmured conversation smiled brightly and told them to go right in. A ruddy-faced man with the body of a night club bouncer gone to flab greeted them at the door. He introduced himself as Hanley and ushered them to a pair of Empire-style chairs. Settling his bulk behind a large mahogany desk, he leaned back in his plush swivel chair, tented his fingertips, and contemplated the two men like a wolf drooling over a pair of staked goats.