Blue & Gold

by Clive Cussler

  “Do you know who these men are?”

  The brothers shrugged.

  “That’s Kurt Austin, head of NUMA’s Special Assignments Team, and Jose Zavala, a member of the team.”

  “When can we …”

  “… eliminate them?”

  The temperature in the cool room seemed to drop another twenty degrees.

  “If they were responsible for the destruction of the Baja facility, they will pay with their lives,” Brynhild said. “But not now. There’s a minor problem to be taken care of.” She gave them the name of the newspaper editor and said, “That’s all. You can go.”

  The brothers hastened from the room like a pair of dogs sent to fetch a bone, and Brynhild was alone again. She sat there brooding about the Baja facility. All that work wasted. Even worse, the supply of the catalyst was destroyed in the blast. She stared with hate-filled eyes at the faces of the two men on the computer monitor.

  “Little people,” she snarled.

  With a wave of her hand the screen went blank.

  Chapter 17

  Paul Trout turned the shower off and again examined its workings with scientific admiration. Water flowed through a wooden pipe and sprayed out through tiny holes in the hardened shell of a hollowed-out gourd. A simple wooden valve controlled the flow. The water disappeared through a drain hole in the hardwood floor. He stepped from the wooden stall, dried himself with a cotton towel, wrapped his body in another, and went through a doorway into an adjacent room lit by clay lamps.

  Gamay was stretched out on a comfortable grass-filled mat tress placed on a platform bed. She had fashioned her towel into a toga, had combed and braided her dark red hair, and was sampling fruit from a large bowl like a woman of ancient Rome. She eyed Paul, whose towel looked ridiculously small on his tall figure. “What do you think of all this, nature boy?”

  “I’ve seen worse plumbing back in the so-called civilized world.”

  “Did you know a civilization can be measured by the sophistication of its plumbing?”

  “I can’t say much for the uncivilized habit the locals have of sticking heads on sharpened poles, but this whole village is a miracle. Look at the workmanship in these walls,” he said, running his fingers over the white plastered surface. “I’ve got a mil lion questions. Any word from our hostess?”

  “She sent Tessa by and said she would see us after we’ve had a chance to rest. Talk about pulling a rabbit out a hat. I thought the Chulo grabbed Dieter’s wife.”

  The goddess had offered no explanations. After greeting the Trouts by name and producing Tessa, she simply said, “Please be patient. I’ll explain everything in time.”

  At a clap of her hands two young Indian women had emerged with heads lowered from behind the curtain. The bare-breasted ladies-in-waiting led the Trouts to their bedroom, demonstrated the workings of the shower, and left them with a bowl of fruit.

  “I know better than to disobey a white goddess,” Paul said, sitting alongside his wife. “What do you make of her?”

  “Let’s deal with the obvious.” Gamay tallied her conclusions on her fingers. “She didn’t grow up in these parts. She speaks English with a slight accent. She’s smart. She’s friendly. And certainly knows her fruit. Here, try one of these little yellow ones. It tastes like an orange sprinkled with cinnamon.”

  Trout sampled the plum-sized blob and agreed with the assessment. Then he stretched out on the bed, his feet sticking out over the end. They only intended to rest a little while, but exhausted from the long trek in the sun and relaxed by the shower, they fell asleep.

  When they awoke they saw an Indian lady-in-waiting sitting cross-legged on the floor watching them. Seeing them stir, she slipped silently from the room. Lying on a table were their clothes, which had disappeared when they were in the shower. Their shorts and shirts had been washed clean of sweat and grime and were neatly folded. Trout checked his watch. They had slept three hours. They dressed quickly, hastened by the aroma of cooking food.

  Tessa arrived and beckoned for them to follow. She led them along a passageway to a large chamber. A dark wood table and three covered stools occupied the center of the room. An Indian woman was tending to clay pots bubbling on a ceramic stove whose exhaust was carried through the ceiling by pipes.

  The white goddess arrived a moment later, her barefoot presence announced by the soft jingle of her metal bracelets and anklets. A pendant similar to that worn by the dead Indian hung from her neck. She was wearing a two-piece suit of jaguar skin which hugged the contours of her bronzed body nicely. She had Oriental eyes and high cheekbones. Her hair, bleached to a honeyed blond by the sun, was combed back and cut in bangs the way the native women wore theirs. Taking a seat at the table, she said, “You look more rested.” “The shower helped immensely,” Gamay said.

  “That’s a remarkable setup,” Paul added. “As a native New Englander, I was intrigued by your Yankee inventiveness.”

  “It was one of my first projects, thank you. The water is pumped by windmill into a holding tank to maintain pressure. It ties in with a ventilated system of pipes that runs through these walls and keeps this place cool even on the hottest days. It was the best air conditioning I could come up with given the materials I had to work with.” Anticipating their curiosity, she said, “First we’ll eat, and then we’ll talk.”

  The cook brought over a vegetable and meat stew served with salad greens in blue-and-white bowls. Questions were for gotten as Gamay and Paul plunged into their food, washing their meal down with a refreshing faintly alcoholic beverage. Sugar sweetened cakes were served for dessert. The goddess looked on, amused at their hunger.

  When the dishes were cleared, the goddess declared, “Now it is time to pay for your dinner.” She smiled. “You must tell me what has been going on in the outside world for the past ten years.”

  “That’s a cheap price for a meal like that,” Paul said.

  “You may not think so when I’m through. Start with science if you will. What advances, great or small, have come about in the last decade?”

  They took turns, describing the advances in computers, the widespread use of the Internet and wireless communication, the space shuttle missions, the Hubble telescope, unmanned space probes, discoveries by NUMA in the field of oceanography, and

  advances in medicine. She listened with fascination, her chin resting on her folded hands. Occasionally she asked a probing question that indicated her own scientific background, but mostly she absorbed the information with the dreamy look of an addict inhaling opium fumes. “Now tell me about the political situation,” she requested.

  Again they pored through the events in their memory: American presidential politics, relations with Russia, the Persian Gulf wars, the strife in the Balkans, droughts, famines, terrorism, the European Union. She asked about Brazil and seemed pleased when they said the country had become a democracy. They talked about movies and plays, music and art, about the deaths of well-known figures. Even Paul and Gamay were surprised at the incredible busyness of the past decade. Their jaws were get ting tired from the litany of events.

  “What about cancer? Have they found a cure?”

  “Unfortunately no.”

  “What about fresh water? Is it still a problem for many countries?”

  “Worse than ever, between development and pollution.”

  She shook her head sadly. “So much,” she said in a faraway voice. “I’ve missed so much. I don’t know if my parents are still alive. I miss them, my mother especially.” A tear gleamed in her eye, and she wiped it away with her napkin. “I must apologize for being so demanding, but you have no idea how awful it is to be isolated here in the forest, with no communication to the out side world. You have been very kind and patient. Now it is time for you to hear my story.” She called for tea to be served, then dismissed the Indian women so that there were only the three of them.

  “My name is Francesca Cabral,” she began. For an hour the Trouts listened raptly
to the goddess’s story, starting with her family, going through her education in Brazil and America, up to the time of the plane crash.

  “I was the only survivor of the crash,” she said. “The copilot was a scoundrel, but he knew how to fly. The jet skidded into

  muddy wetlands near the river. The mud cushioned the landing and prevented fire. When I woke up I found myself in a hut where the Indians carried me. I was in terrible pain from my cuts and bruises, and my right leg was broken. A compound fracture, the worst kind. As you’ve heard, the rain forest medicines can be potent. They set my leg and treated me with potions that dulled the suffering and promoted healing. I learned later that the plane had landed on top of their chief’s house and killed him. They held me no ill. In fact, it was just the opposite.” “They made you their goddess,” Gamay said.

  “You can see why. The Chulo retreated from the onslaught of the white man a long time ago. They’ve been completely cut off from the world. Then I come like a comet flaming from the sky. Gods are supposed to behave that way to keep people in line. They figured the chief had angered the gods. I became the center of their religion.”

  ‘A cargo cult?” Gamay offered.

  Paul said, “Back during World War II, natives who saw planes overhead for the first time built replicas on the ground to worship.”

  ~

  ~

  “Yes,” Gamay said. “Remember that movie The Gods Must Be Crazy? A Coke bottle dropped from an airplane became an object of religious veneration and started all sorts of trouble.”

  “Precisely,” Francesca said. “Think of how those natives would react if they had an actual plane in their possession.”

  “That explains the shrine with the plane at its center.”

  She nodded. “They hauled the pieces of the jet there and did a fairly good job of reassembling it. Sort of a ‘chariot of the god.’ We have to sacrifice an animal now and then so the gods won’t wreak more destruction on the tribe.”

  “The plane was blue and white,” Gamay said. “The natives paint themselves with the same color scheme. No coincidence?”

  “They believe it will give them protection against their enemies.”

  “How did Tessa come to be here?”

  “Tessa is half Chulo. Her mother was captured during a raid

  by a neighboring tribe and traded to a European who was Tessa’s father. He was killed during a tribal dispute, and Tessa became Dieter’s property. He knew of the Chulo and married Tessa when she was still a girl, erroneously thinking it would give him entree to the tribe and its medicinal herbs, which he trafficked in.” “Why did she stay with Dieter?”

  “She thought she had no choice. Dieter reminded her constantly that she was a half-breed, spoiled goods. An outcast.”

  “What about the Indian whose body we found?”

  “Tessa wasn’t the first child born to her mother. She had a half-brother who lived here. He was determined to find his family and began to make explorations beyond the falls. He learned that his mother had died but that he had a sister. Tessa. He went to bring her back. The Chulo take family honor very seriously. The plant pirates working with Dieter captured him. They wanted him to show them where to find blood root.”

  “Arnaud mentioned the plant.”

  “It’s the miraculous species that was used to help me after the plane crash. The tribe considers it to be sacred. He refused to tell them where to find it, so they tortured him. He was shot trying to escape, and you found him. Dieter stole the specimens. I sent a search party to look for Tessa’s brother. She was trying to get back here when they ran into her, and she told them the story. I sent her back to Dieter’s with instructions to keep us in formed about what was going on. Then you showed up unexpectedly. Tessa tried to warn you off. When that didn’t work she helped you escape. Or so she thought. You reappeared on our doorstep.”

  “We’re in one piece. That’s more than I can say for Dieter and his friends.”

  “The men of the tribe brought the heads back as gifts to me.” She glanced around the dining room which was hung with colorful tapestries of village life. “Shrunken heads would clash with my decor, so I suggested they put them outside the village.”

  “Were you also responsible for our welcoming committee?”

  “Oh, yes. You must admit that big orange-and-blue balloon

  you were flying was not inconspicuous. The men reported that you had almost flown into the falls. I had ordered that if you were seen you would be observed but not harmed. They were tracking you from the start. I was surprised when you started this way. You couldn’t have been lost.” “We thought we might borrow a canoe.”

  ‘Ah. How audacious! You wouldn’t have stood a chance. The reputation these people have is well deserved. They tracked you for miles. Sometimes I think they truly are the ghost people. They can melt through the forest like the mists the other Indians say they are made of.”

  Paul had been pondering Francesca’s story. “Why would someone want to hijack the plane and kidnap you?”

  “I have an idea why. Come, I’ll show you.”

  Francesca rose from the table and led the way through torch lit hallways to a large bedroom. She reached into a chest and pulled out a battered and scarred aluminum case. She set it on top of her bed, then opened it. Inside was a jumble of broken wires and circuits.

  “This was a model of the experiment I was carrying to Cairo. I won’t go into the technical details, but if you pour seawater in on this end, the salt is extracted and fresh water comes out here.”

  “A desalting process?”

  “Yes. It was a revolutionary approach unlike any devised be fore. It took me two years to perfect. The problem with desalination has been its cost. This process would transform hundreds of gallons for only pennies. At the same time it produces heat which can be transformed into energy.” She shook her head. “It would have turned deserts into gardens and allowed people the benefits of power.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Paul said. “Why would someone want to prevent a boon like this from being made available to the world?”

  “I’ve asked myself that question many times in the past ten years and still have no satisfactory answer.”

  “Was this your only model?”

  “Yes,” she said sadly. “I took everything with me from Sao Paulo. All my papers were burned in the plane crash.” Brightening, she said, “I was able to put my hydraulic engineering skills to work here. It can be boring just sitting around being adored all day. I’m virtually a prisoner They hid me from search parties after the crash. The only place where I am truly alone is this palace. Only those who are invited can enter. My servants were handpicked for their loyalty. Outside the palace I’m watched by my Praetorian guard.”

  “Being a white goddess isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Paul said.

  “An understatement. Which is why I’m so happy you dropped out of the sky. Tonight you rest. Tomorrow I will give you a tour of the village, and we will start planning.”

  “Planning for what?” Gamay said.

  “Sorry, I thought that was obvious. Planning to escape.”

  Chapter 18

  Austin had a quick breakfast of ham and scrambled eggs on the deck of his boathouse below the Potomac palisades in Fairfax, Virginia. He stared longingly at the slow-moving river, thinking that a brisk row in his scull would be far preferable to morning traffic on the Beltway. But the events of the last few days gnawed at him. Having narrowly missed being killed twice had injected a personal note into the case.

  Driving a turquoise NUMA-issue Jeep Cherokee, Austin headed south and then east across the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge into Maryland, where he left the Beltway. In suburban Suitland he pulled off the road at a complex of metal buildings so boringly nondescript that they could only have been built by the federal government.

  A docent in the visitor center took his name and made a call. Minutes later a trim middle-aged man arrived carrying a clip b
oard. He wore paint-splattered jeans, a denim work shirt, and a baseball cap with the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum logo. He gave Austin a firm handshake and introduced himself.

  “I’m Fred Miller. We talked on the phone,” he said.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “No problem.” Miller raised a quizzical brow. “Are you the same Kurt Austin who found the Christopher Columbus tomb in Guatemala?”

  “That’s me.” “That must have been some adventure.” “It had its moments.”

  “I’ll bet. I have to apologize. Aside from what I read in the papers of NUMA’s undersea exploits, I don’t know a lot about your agency.”

  “Maybe we can both learn something about our respective work. I don’t know much about the Paul E. Garber Preservation, Restoration, and Storage Facility. Your Web site says you restore historical and vintage airplanes.”

  “That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Miller said, showing the way to the door. “C’mon, I’ll give you a tour.”

  He led Austin outside and continued his narrative as they walked past a row of identical buildings, all with low roofs and big sliding doors. “Paul Garber was a plane nut, which was fortunate for us. When he was just a kid he saw Orville Wright fly the world’s first military aircraft. Later he worked for the Smithsonian and was instrumental in creating the National Air Museum. The Air Force and Navy had collected examples of the planes that won World War II and some of the enemy planes they beat. They wanted to get rid of them. Garber did an aerial survey and found twenty-one acres owned by the federal government out here in the sticks. There are thirty-two buildings at the center.” They stopped in front of one of the larger structures. “This is Building Ten, the workshop where we do the restorations.”