Blue Gold

by Clive Cussler

“I’ll take your bag to your quarters, sir. The others are waiting. You’ll find a nameplate designating your seat.”

  The guide pressed a button on the wall, and the doors opened silently. Kinkaid stepped inside and sucked his breath in as the doors clicked shut behind him. He was in a massive, high-ceilinged chamber. The great hall was lit by the fire from a huge hearth and blazing wall torches that vied for space with brightly decorated shields and pennants, spears, battle-axes, swords, and other instruments of death that recalled a time when war was an exercise in personal butchery.

  The lethal artifacts paled next to the object occupying the center of the room. It was a Viking ship about seventy feet in length, its oak planking curved into an upswept bow and stern. The single square hide sail was set as if to catch a following breeze. A gangway near the stern allowed access to the deck and to a long table that ran lengthwise with the mast as its center point.

  Kinkaid was a Marine veteran who had seen action in Vietnam and was not put off by the intimidating surroundings. Setting his jaw in an unmistakable expression of determination, he crossed the hall to the ship and went up the gangway. Seated around the table were about two dozen men who halted their conversation and looked at him with curiosity. He sat in the last empty chair and glowered at the others. He was about to strike up a conversation with the man on his right when the double doors at the end of the hall were flung open.

  A woman entered and strode toward the boat in the flickering light of the torches, her long legs quickly eating up the distance. As she made her way across the hall, her close-fitting green coveralls emphasized the athletic body, but it was her height that was most imposing. She was nearly seven feet tall.

  The woman’s body and features were unflawed, but she was beautiful in the way an iceberg is beautiful, and equally forbidding. She could have sprung whole from the arctic permafrost. Her flaxen hair was pulled away from her face and tied in a bun, displaying to the fullest the marble skin and large eyes that were a hard glacial blue. She came up the gangway onto the ship and walked around the table. In a voice surprising for its softness she greeted each man by name and thanked him for coming. When she reached the congressman she paused, boring into his craggy face with her remarkable eyes, and shook his hand in a vise grip. Then she took her place in front of the high-backed chair at the bow end of the table. She smiled a smile that was as cold as it was seductive.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, her voice rising to the rich tones of a natural orator. “My name is Brynhild Sigurd. Undoubtedly, you are wondering what sort of a place this is. Valhalla is my home and corporate headquarters, but it is also a celebration of my Scandinavian roots. The main building is an expanded version of a Viking long house. The wings are for specialized use, such as offices, guest quarters, gymnasium, and a museum for my collection of primitive Norse art.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I hope none of you is prone to seasickness.” She waited for the laughter to subside, then went on. “This vessel is a reproduction of the Gogstad Viking ship. It is more than a stage prop; it symbolizes my belief that the impossible is attainable. I had it built because I admire the functional beauty of the design, but also as a constant reminder that the Vikings would never have crossed the sea if they had not been adventurous and daring. Perhaps their spirit will influence the decisions made here.” She paused for a moment, then went on. “You’re probably all wondering why I invited you,” she said.

  A saw-edged voice cut her off. “I’d say that your offer to give us fifty thousand dollars or donate it to a charity of our choice may have had something to do with it,” Congressman Kinkaid said. “I’ve donated your offer to a scientific foundation that looks into birth defects.”

  “I would have expected nothing less, given your reputation for integrity.”

  Kinkaid grunted and sat back in his chair. “Pardon me for interrupting,” he said. “Please get on with your, er, fascinating presentation.”

  “Thank you,” Brynhild said. “To continue, you gentlemen come from all parts of the country and represent many different endeavors. Among your number are politicians, bureaucrats, academics, lobbyists, and engineers. But you and I belong to a common fraternity bound together by one thing. Water. A commodity we know to be in very short supply these days. Everyone is aware that we are facing what could possibly be the longest drought in the country’s history. Is that not so, Professor Dearborn? As a climatologist, would you kindly give us your appraisal of the situation?”

  “I’d be glad to,” replied a middle-aged man who seemed surprised to be called upon. He ran his fingers through thinning ginger-colored hair and said, “This country is experiencing moderate to severe drought in its midsection and along the southern tier from Arizona to Florida. That’s nearly a quarter of the contiguous forty-eight states. The situation will probably get worse. In addition, water in the Great Lakes is at all-time lows. A prolonged drought of Dust Bowl levels is entirely possible. A megadrought lasting decades is not outside the realm of possibility.”

  There was a murmur from around the table.

  Brynhild opened a wooden box in front of her, dug her hand inside, and let the sand run through her long fingers.

  “The party’s over, gentlemen. This is the bleak, dusty future we face.”

  “With all due respect, Ms. Brynhild,” drawled a Nevadan, “you’re not telling us anything new. Vegas is going to be in tough shape. L.A. and Phoenix aren’t much better off.”

  She put her hands together in light applause. “Agreed. But what if I told you there is a way to save our cities?”

  “I’d like to hear about that,” said the Nevadan.

  She slammed the cover down symbolically on the box.

  “The first step has already been taken. As most of you know, Congress has authorized private control over the distribution of water from the Colorado River.”

  Kinkaid leaned forward onto the table. “And as you must know, Ms. Sigurd, I led the opposition to that bill.”

  “Fortunately you did not prevail. Had the legislation gone down, the West would have been doomed. The reservoirs hold only a two-year supply. After that ran out we would have to evacuate most of California and Arizona and a good portion of Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Wyoming.”

  “I’ll say the same thing I told those fools in Washington. Putting Hoover Dam in private hands won’t increase the water supply.”

  “That was never at issue. The problem was not water supply but distribution. Much of the water was being misused. Ending government subsidies and putting water in the private sector means that it will not be wasted for the simplest of reasons. Waste is not profitable.”

  “I stand by my basic argument,” Kinkaid said. “Something as important as water should not be controlled by companies that are unaccountable to the public.”

  “The public had its chance and failed. Now the price of water will be set by supply and demand. The marketplace will rule. Only those who can afford the water will get it.”

  “That’s exactly what I said during the debate. The rich cities would thrive while the poor communities die of thirst.”

  Brynhild was unyielding. “So what of it? Consider the alternatives if the water continued to be distributed under the old publicly owned system and the rivers dried up. The West as we know it would become a dust bowl. As the man from Nevada said, L.A., Phoenix, and Denver would become ghost towns. Picture tumbleweed blowing through the empty casinos of Las Vegas. There would be economic disaster. Bond markets would dry up. Wall Street would turn its back on us. Loss in financial power means lost influence in Washington. Public works money would flow to other parts of the country.”

  She let the litany of disasters sink in, then went on. “Westerners would become the new ‘Okies,’ straight out of The Grapes of Wrath. Only instead of moving west to the Promised Land, they would pile their families into their Lexus and Mercedes SUVs and head east.” With irony in her rich voice, she said, “Ask yourself how the crowd
ed eastern seaboard would react to thousands, millions of jobless westerners moving into their neighborhood.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Wouldn’t it be interesting if the people in Oklahoma refused to take us under their wing?”

  “I wouldn’t blame them,” said a developer from Southern California. “They’d greet us the same way the Californians did my grandparents, with guns and goon squads and roadblocks.”

  A rancher from Arizona grinned ruefully. “If you Californians weren’t so damned greedy, there would be enough water for everybody.”

  Within minutes everyone was talking at once. Brynhild let the argument go on before rapping the table with her knuckle.

  “This fruitless discussion is an example of the squabbling over water that has gone on for decades. In the old days ranchers shot each other over water rights. Today your weapons are lawsuits. Privatization will end this squabbling. We must end the fighting among ourselves.”

  The sound of clapping echoed in the hall. “Brava,” said Kinkaid. “I applaud your eloquent performance, but you’re wasting your time. I intend to ask Congress to reopen the whole issue.”

  “That might be a mistake.”

  Kinkaid was too agitated to detect the veiled threat. “I don’t think so. I have it on good authority that the companies that have taken over the Colorado River system spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to influence this awful legislation.”

  “Your information is inaccurate. We spent millions.”

  “Millions. You—?”

  “Not personally. My corporation, which is the umbrella organization for those companies you mentioned.”

  “I’m stunned. The Colorado River is under your control?”

  “Actually, under the control of an entity set up for that express purpose.”

  “Outrageous! I can’t believe you’re telling me this.”

  “Nothing that has been done is illegal.”

  “That’s what they said in Los Angeles when the city water department stole the Owens Valley river.”

  “You make my point for me. This is nothing new. L.A. became the biggest, richest, and most powerful desert city in the world by sending forth an army of water surveyors, lawyers, and land speculators to take control of water from its neighbors.”

  Professor Dearborn spoke up. “Pardon me, but I’m afraid I agree with the congressman. The Los Angeles case was a classic case of water imperialism. If what you’re saying is true, you’re laying the groundwork for a water monopoly.”

  “Let me pose a scenario, Dr. Dearborn. The drought persists. The Colorado River is unable to meet demand. The cities are dying of thirst. You wouldn’t have lawyers debating water allocation, you’d have gunfights at the water hole as in the old days. Think about it. Thirst-crazed mobs in the street, attacking all authority. The complete breakdown of order. The Watts riots would be a schoolyard fight by comparison.”

  Dearborn nodded like a man in a trance. “You’re right,” he said, clearly troubled. “But, if you’ll pardon me . . . it just doesn’t seem right.”

  She cut him short. “This is a fight for survival, professor. We live or we die according to our will.”

  Defeated, Dearborn leaned back, arms folded, and shook his head.

  Kinkaid took up the cudgels. “Don’t let her confuse the issue with her phony scenarios, Professor Dearborn.”

  “Apparently I have not been able to change your mind.”

  Kinkaid stood and said, “No, but I’ll tell you what you did do. You’ve given me some good ammunition for when I bring this matter up again before committee. I wouldn’t be surprised if antitrust action is merited. I’ll bet my colleagues who voted for the Colorado River bill would change their minds if they knew that the whole system was going to be under the thumb of one corporation.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Brynhild said.

  “You’re going to be a damned lot more sorry when I get through with you. I want to leave your private amusement park immediately.”

  She gazed at him with sadness. She admired strength even when it was used against her.

  “Very well.” She spoke into a radio she had clipped to her belt. “It will take a few minutes to get your luggage and ready the helicopter.”

  The door to the hall opened, and the man who had escorted Kinkaid earlier guided him from the chamber.

  When they were gone, Brynhild said, “While some may consider this drought a disaster, it presents a golden opportunity. The Colorado River is only part of our plan. We are continuing to acquire control over water systems around the country. You are all in a position to influence the success of our goals in operations in your communities. There will be great reward for everyone in this room, beyond your imagination in fact. At the same time you will be doing something for the common good as well.” Her eyes swept both sides of the table. “Anyone who wants to leave now can do so. I only request that you give your word to keep your silence about this meeting.”

  The guests exchanged glances and some uneasily shifted their weight, but nobody accepted her offer of an exit visa. Not even Dearborn.

  Waiters materialized magically, placed pitchers of water on the tables and a glass in front of each man.

  Brynhild looked around the assemblage. “It was William Mulholland who was most responsible for bringing water to Los Angeles. He pointed to Owens Valley and said, ‘There it is. Take it.’ ”

  As if on signal, the waiters poured the glasses full and retreated.

  Raising her glass high, she said, “There it is. Take it.”

  She put the glass to her lips and took a long drink. The others followed suit as if in a strange communion ritual.

  “Good,” she said. “Now for the next step. You will go home and wait for a call. When a request is made you will comply without question. Nothing that transpired at this meeting can be divulged. Not even the fact that you were here.”

  She scanned each face. “If there are no more questions,” she said, making clear by her tone that debate had ended, “please enjoy yourselves. Dinner will be served in the dining hall in ten minutes. I have brought in a five-star chef, so I don’t think you will be displeased. There’s entertainment from Las Vegas after dinner, and you will be shown to your rooms. You will leave after breakfast tomorrow morning, in the sequence you arrived. I will see you at the next meeting, exactly a month from now.”

  With that, she left the table, strode across the room and through the double doors she had entered by, walking down a corridor and into an anteroom. Two men stood in the room, legs wide apart, arms folded behind their backs, their deep-set black eyes glued to the flickering screens that took up one wall. They were identical twins dressed alike in matching black leather jackets. They had the same stocky physiques, high cheekbones, hair the color of wet hay, and dark, beetling brows.

  “Well, what do you think of our guests?” she said with derision. “Will these worms serve their purpose and loosen the soil?”

  The analogy was lost on the brothers, who had only one thing on their minds.

  Speaking in an eastern European accent, the man on the right said, “Whom do you want . . . ”

  “. . . us to eliminate?” said the man on the left, finishing the sentence.

  Their monotone voices were exactly alike. Brynhild smiled with satisfaction. The answer reaffirmed her conviction that she had made the right decision rescuing Melo and Radko Kradzik from the NATO forces that wanted to bring the notorious brothers before the World Court at The Hague charged with crimes against humanity. The twins were classic sociopaths and would have made a mark for themselves even without the Bosnian war. Their paramilitary status conferred semi-legitimacy on the murder, rape, and torture they carried out in the name of nationalism. It was difficult to imagine these monsters ever having been in a mother’s womb, but somewhere they had forged the ability to intuit what the other was thinking. They were the same man, only in separate bodies. Their bond made them doubly dangerous because they could act without verba
l communication. Brynhild had stopped trying to tell them apart. “Whom do you think should be eliminated?”

  One man reached out with a hand whose clawlike fingers seemed to be made for inflicting pain and reversed the video tape. The other twin pointed to a man in a blue suit.

  “Him,” they said simultaneously.

  “Congressman Kinkaid?”

  “Yes, he didn’t . . . ”

  “. . . like what you said.”

  “And the others?”

  Again the video reversed and they pointed.

  “Professor Dearborn? A pity, but your instincts are probably right. We can’t afford to have anybody with even the trace of scruples. Very well, cull him out as well. Do your work as discreetly as possible. I’m scheduling a meeting of the board of directors soon to go over our long-range plans. I want everything in place before then. I won’t tolerate mistakes the way those fools bungled their job in Brazil ten years ago.”

  She whirled from the room and left the twins to themselves. The men remained there unmoving, their glittering eyes looking at the screen with the hungry expression of a cat choosing the fattest goldfish in the tank for his dinner.

  8

  THE RIVER SCENERY had changed little since Dr. Ramirez waved good-bye from his dock and wished the Trouts a safe trip. The airboat followed mile after mile of the twisting and unbroken ribbon of dark green water. An unyielding wall of trees hemmed the river in on both sides and separated it from the eternal night of the forest. At one point they had to stop because the river was blocked by debris. They welcomed the break from the mind-numbing drone of the airplane engine. They tied lines around the entangled logs and branches and unclogged the bottleneck. The job was time-consuming, and it was late afternoon when the leafy ramparts gave way to brief glimpses of open space and cultivated fields along the river’s edge. Then the forest opened up to reveal a cluster of grass huts.

  Paul reduced speed and aimed the airboat’s blunt prow between several dugout canoes drawn up on the muddy banking. With a quick goose on the throttle, he slid the boat onto the shore and cut the engine. He removed the NUMA baseball cap he had been wearing backward on his head and used it to fan his face.