Blue & Gold

by Clive Cussler

  Leonard’s cell phone buzzed, and she put it to her ear. “Sir,” she said hesitantly, “call for you from Langley.”

  LeGrand scowled, muttering under his breath about no peace for the wicked. He made no motion to take the phone. “Didn’t I ask that I not be disturbed for two hours while I was in McLean unless it was extremely urgent?”

  “It’s John Rowland, and he says it is of utmost importance.”

  “Rowland? Well, in that case… ” He took the phone and stuck it in his ear. “Hello, John,” he said, frown changing to a smile. “No apology needed. You’re just in time to hear the good news. Katie won first place in English riding at the country club…. Thank you. Now, what’s so important that it interrupts possibly the most important moment of Katie’s life?”

  LeGrand’s brow furrowed. “No, I’ve never heard of it … yes, of course … wait for me in my office.”

  He handed the phone to his aide, looked at the trophy, and shook his head. “Tell the car to come around and pick me up immediately at the stable. We’ve got to get back to Langley immediately. Then put a call in to my office and tell them to render any assistance that John Rowland asks for. I’ve got to say my good-byes and make amends. Hell, this will probably cost me another horse.” He loped off to offer his apologies to his daughter.

  Twenty minutes later the black limo squealed to a halt in front of CIA headquarters. LeGrand got out, striding through the lobby on his long legs. An assistant met him inside the door. He snatched the folder from his aide’s hand and scanned the material in the elevator. Moments later he stepped into his office. John Rowland was waiting with a nervous young man he introduced as a fellow analyst named Browning.

  Rowland and the director shook hands like the old friends they were. Years before, both were at the same level in the agency. But LeGrand had political ambition and the drive to climb to the top of the ladder. Rowland was content to stay in his post where he was known as a mentor for the young analysts coming through the ranks. LeGrand put unquestioning faith in Rowland, who on more than one occasion had saved his boss from stepping into a cow flap.

  “I just read the material you got off the database. What’s your take on it?”

  Rowland lost no time outlining his analysis.

  “This thing can’t be stopped?” LeGrand said.

  “The protocol has been activated. The sanction will be carried out to the end.”

  “Damn! Heads are going to roll when I’m through. Who’s the target?”

  Rowland handed him a sheet of paper. LeGrand read the name on it, and the color drained from his face.

  “Call the Secret Service. Tell them we’ve learned of an assassination plot against the speaker of the House. He needs protection immediately. Dear God,” he said. “Can anyone tell me how something like this happens?”

  “We’re going to have to do some digging to get all the de tails,” Rowland said. “We only know that the protocol was triggered by simultaneous queries to the intelligence-gathering community that came from the National Underwater & Marine Agency.”

  “NUMA?” The air over LeGrand’s head crackled blue as he gave an impressive demonstration of his renowned skill for inventive expletive. He slammed his big hand down on the desk with enough force to topple the pen from its holder and yelled at the nearest assistant. “Get James Sandecker on the phone.”

  Chapter 24

  “Were about twenty minutes from Albany,” Buzz Martin said.

  Austin looked out the window of Martin’s two-engine Piper Seneca. The visibility was as unlimited as when they had left Baltimore earlier that afternoon. Austin could practically read the names on the boats dotting the upper reaches of the Hudson River.

  “Thanks again for the lift. My partner Joe Zavala usually chauffeurs me around on these junkets, but he’s still in California.”

  Martin gave Austin a thumbs-up sign. “Hell, I’m the one who should be thanking you. I’m sure you could have got up here on your own.”

  “Probably, but my motives are not unselfish. I need you to identify your father.”

  Martin glanced off at the Catskill Mountains to the west. “I wonder if I’ll even recognize him after all these years. It’s been a long time. He could have changed a lot.” A cloud passed over his sunny features. “Damn, ever since you called and asked me to fly you up here, I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m going to say to him. I don’t know whether to hug him or hit the old bastard.”

  “You might shake his hand for starters. Taking a swing at your long-lost father is no way to start a family reunion.”

  Martin chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right. But I can’t stop being angry with him. I want him to tell me why he left my mother and me and why he stayed hidden all these years, making us think he was dead. Good thing my mother is gone. She was an old-fashioned girl, and it would have killed her to think she had married while her first husband was still alive. Hell,” he said with a catch in his voice, “I just hope I don’t start bawling.”

  He picked up the microphone and called the Albany control tower for landing instructions. Within minutes they were on the ground.

  The car rental counter had no lines, and before long they were driving out of the city in a four-wheel-drive Pathfinder. Austin headed southwest on Route 88 toward Binghamton through rolling hills and small farms. About an hour from Albany he left the main highway and drove north to Cooperstown, an idyllic village whose neat main street looked like a set from a Frank Capra movie. From Cooperstown they headed west on a winding two-lane country road. This was James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking country, and with a little imagination Austin could picture Hawkeye skulking through the wooded valleys with his Indian companions. Towns and houses grew even farther apart. In this part of the world the cows outnumbered the people.

  Even with a map it was hard to find the place they were looking for. Austin stopped at a gas station-general store, and Buzz went in for directions. When he came out he was clearly excited.

  “The old-timer in there says he’s known Bucky Martin for years. ‘Nice fella. Pretty much keeps to himself.’ Go up this road a half a mile and turn left. The farm is about five miles from there.”

  The road became narrow and bumpy, the tarmac almost an afterthought. The farms alternated with thick patches of woods, and they almost missed the turnoff. The only marker was an aluminum mailbox with no name or number on it. A dirt driveway, past the mailbox into the woods. They turned onto the driveway.

  and passed through a copse of trees that shielded the house from the highway. Eventually the trees gave way to pastures where small herds of cows grazed. Finally, at least a half a mile from the road, they came upon the farmhouse.

  The big two-story building was built in an era when three generations lived together to work a farm. The decorative windows and stained glass indicated that the owner had been successful enough to afford extra touches. A porch ran across the front. Behind the house was a red barn and silo. Next to the barn was a corral with two horses in it. A fairly new pickup truck was parked in the yard.

  Austin swung into the circular driveway and parked in front of the house. No one came out to greet them. There was no curious face in the windows.

  “Maybe you should let me go first,” Austin suggested. “It might help if I do a little prep work before you meet face-to face.”

  “That’s fine,” Buzz said. “I’m losing courage fast.”

  Austin squeezed Martin’s arm. “You’ll be fine.” He didn’t know what he would have done in the man’s place. He doubted he would have been as calm. “I’ll check him out and break it to him gradually.”

  “I appreciate that,” Martin said.

  Austin left the car, went up to the front door, and knocked several times. No one answered. Nor was there a response when he twisted the knob of the old doorbell. He turned around and threw his hands apart so Martin could see. He descended the porch and walked behind the house to the barn. The only sound was the soft clucking of ch
ickens and the occasional grunt from a rooting pig.

  The barn door was open. He walked inside, thinking that barns smelled the same the world over, an unmistakable combination of manure, hay, and big animals. A horse snorted as he walked by its stall, maybe thinking he was bringing it sugar, but there was no sign of Martin. He called out a hello and when there was no response walked out the back door. The chickens under Wild Bill Donovan. I was what they’d call a hit man today. I pulled a few assignments after the war, then told them I wanted to retire. The boss said there was no way they could let me do that. I knew too much. So we worked out a deal. They’d keep me active for one more job. The only problem was, they didn’t know when the order would be carried out. It could be five months or five years.” He chuckled. “No one figured it would go on this long, especially me.” Austin noticed that Martin had lost his folksy farm accent. “Who were you supposed to kill?”

  “The government had this big secret they didn’t want any one to know about. They devised a system so that if anyone started snooping and got too close, the protocol would be activated. Here’s the real clever thing. They would make potential opposition come to me. They set me up here in the middle of nowhere. When you started poking around, it triggered a series of commands. One would tell you where I was. The last would tell me to carry out the original sanction against the speaker of the House. Seems he heard about the government’s secret and was going to blow the whistle.”

  “This protocol you’re talking about must be fifty years old The congressman you were supposed to kill has been dead for years.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m still under orders. Sad thing, that secret’s so old it probably doesn’t make a difference one way or the other.” He lapsed back into his farm accent, and the blue eyes grew hard and cold. “Sure glad you came, son. I’m officially retired after this.”

  The gun came up. Austin braced himself for the deafening blast. He tensed his stomach muscles as if by sheer will he could prevent the slug from tearing into his rib cage. Had he time ~o think about it, he would have ruminated on the irony, after surviving countless near-fatal assignments, of dying at the hands of a half-deaf, near-blind, octogenarian assassin.

  A figure suddenly materialized behind Martin. It was Buzz. The old man’s sight was still keen enough for him to detect an

  involuntary change in Austin’s expression. He whirled around as Buzz cried out in surprise. “You’re not my father!”

  The old man’s body had shielded the shotgun, but now Buzz’s eyes dropped from Martin’s face to the weapon in his arms. The farmer brought his gun up to his shoulder, but his reflexes were dulled by the years. Austin had to make a split second decision. He could put his head down and crash into the man’s backside like an enraged bull. Not enough time, he decided

  “Martin!” he yelled, at the same time yanking the pitchfork from the bale.

  The farmer turned back to Austin, who whipped the pitchfork at him like a javelin. He was aiming for Martin’s shooting side, but the old man stepped into the oncoming pitchfork and the tines perforated his heart and lungs. He cried out in pain, and the shotgun went off, barrel pointed toward the roof. The horse went crazy and tried to kick down its stall. The gun fell from Martin’s fingers. His eyes rolled into his head, and he crumpled to the wooden floor.

  Austin kicked the shotgun out of reach more out of habit than necessity. Buzz had been frozen with shock, but now he came over and knelt by the body. Austin turned it over so they could see the face.

  Buzz studied the man’s features for a moment and, to Austin’s relief, softly said, “No, he’s definitely not my father. He’s too tall, to begin with. My father was stocky like me. And the face is all wrong. Who in God’s name is he?”

  “He called himself Martin, but that’s not his real name. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Why was he trying to kill you-I mean, both of us?”

  “He didn’t really know. He was like one of those trick bombs the Germans used to drop. They’d go off when the bomb squad tried to defuse them. By the way, I thought you were going to wait in the car.”

  “I tried, but I had to get out and walk. I went behind the house, didn’t see anybody, so I came into the barn looking for you.”

  “I’m glad you did.” Austin cocked his ear. “I think I hear something.” He took a last look at the body. “Happy retirement, Bucky,” he said, and walked toward the door.

  Buzz followed him out into the yard as a black-and-white car with blue roof dome flashing burst from the woods and squealed to a stop in a cloud of dust. Printed in big letters on the car door was the word SHERIFF. Two men in blue uniforms got out. One was burly and young, and the other was slim and gray-haired. The younger man came over with his hand on his holster. His badge signified he was a deputy sheriff.

  “Which one of you is Austin?” he said.

  “That’s me,” Kurt said.

  The deputy must have been prepared for an evasion because he didn’t seem to know what to say next.

  The older man gently pushed his deputy aside. “I’m Sheriff Hastings. Either one of you seen Bucky Martin?”

  “He’s in the barn,” Austin said.

  The deputy hustled into the barn, and when he came out a moment later his face was white.

  “Jeezus,” he said, fumbling for his sidearm, “Old Bucky is dead. Stuck with a pitchfork. Which one of you two did it?”

  Hastings gestured for his deputy to calm down and call the county homicide team. “Could you tell me what’s been going on,

  Mr. Austin?”

  “Martin tried to kill us with that shotgun next to the body. T had to kill him. I was trying to slow him down, but that’s not the way it worked out.”

  “Thanks, but I mean what’s real~7y going on with this whole thing, me getting calls from Washington and all.”

  “Washington?”

  “You bet. First the governor’s office calls and tells me to hold, then they patch through this maniac Admiral Sandecker He says his man Austin is in danger and I’d better get out to Martin’s place or there will be a killing. When I asked what makes him think somebody’s going to be killed, he promises to rip me a new belly button if I don’t stop asking dumb questions and get on my way.” He grinned. “Guess he was right.” He turned to Buzz. “What’s your name?” “Buzz Martin.”

  The sheriff blinked in surprise. ‘Any relation to the de ceased?”

  Austin and Martin looked at each other, not sure how to answer the question.

  Finally Austin shook his head and said, “Hope you’ve got time, sheriff, because that’s a long, long story.”

  Chapter 25

  The drums had been beating steadily for an hour. The sound was cadenced at first, coming from a lone drum at the same throbbing tempo as a human heartbeat. Then other drums had joined in. The hollow thumping accelerated in pace, and a monotonous chanting could be heard in the background. Francesca paced back and forth in the throne room like a caged lion, her hands clasped behind her, head bent low in thought. The Trouts sat next to the throne, waiting patiently for Francesca to speak. Tessa had pulled her vanishing act again.

  Something caused a commotion at the entrance. Seconds later Francesca’s two handmaidens rushed into the throne room, threw themselves on their knees, and babbled excitedly. Calming the young Indians with her soft voice, Francesca gently lifted them to their feet and brushed their disheveled hair away from their faces. She listened to the women speak in turn, then took two bracelets made of airplane parts and slipped them onto their wrists. She kissed her attendants on the tops of their heads and sent them on their way.

  Turning to the Trouts, Francesca said, “Events are moving faster than I anticipated. The women say Alaric has talked the tribe into moving against us.”

  Gamay frowned. “I thought they wouldn’t enter your palace.”

  “I’ve always said Alaric was intelligent. He sent my servants

  to
tell me his plans, evidently to exert psychological pressure. The drums are his work.” She pointed to the ceiling. “The palace walls are clay, but the roof is made of dry grass. They will light the place on fire. He says the true gods will rise from the ashes. If we run outside to escape the flames it will prove that we’re the frauds he says we are, and they will cut us down.” “Would they really harm their queen?” Gamay asked.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time royalty has fallen fatally out of favor. Have you forgotten Mary Queen of Scots or Anne Boleyn?”

  “I get your point,” Gamay said. “What do we do now?”

  “We escape. Are you ready?”

  “Since all we have are the clothes on our backs, we’re ready when you are,” Paul said. “But how are we going to get past that unruly crowd out there?”

  “I still have a few white goddess tricks up my sleeve. Ah, good, Tessa is back.” The Indian woman had materialized as silently as a shadow. She spoke a few words in her native language to Francesca, who answered with a nod. Tessa took one of the torches flanking the throne.

  Francesca said, “Dr. Paul, if you would be so kind as to help Tessa.” Trout went over and hoisted Tessa up by the waist. She was as light as a feather. Tessa tucked the torch in at an angle where the clay met the thatch. The torch had only to burn a few inches before the flame touched the ceiling. They repeated the procedure with another torch on the opposite wall.

  “I don’t count arson among my talents, but this crude time delay will create a distraction when we need it,” Francesca said. She looked around the throne room. “Good-bye,” she said sadly to no one in particular. “In some ways I’ll miss being a queen.” She turned to Tessa, and they talked heatedly. When the discussion was ended Tessa had a satisfied look on her face. Francesca sighed heavily. “You see what’s happening? My subjects are al ready rebelling. I ordered Tessa to stay, but she wants to go with us. We don’t have time to argue further. Follow me.”