"Looks like we met Kurt's skinhead friend Marcel," Trout said.
"He certainly fits the menacing description," Gamay said.
"He was a lot friendlier than I expected," Trout said. "You even had the dog smiling. What did you say?"
"I told them that you were an idiot for getting us lost."
"Oh," Trout said. "And what did baldy say?"
"He said he would be glad to show me the way. I think he was flirting with me."
Trout gave her a sidelong glance. "This is the second time you've used your feminine charms. First with Bert, then on Bullet Head and his mutt."
"All's fair in love and war."
"It's not the war I'm worried about. Every Frenchman we meet seems to have bedroom eyes."
"Oh, shush. I asked him if we could drive around and look at the grapes. He said that was all right, but to stay away from the fence."
Trout turned off at the first dirt road and they bumped along through acre after acre of vineyards. After a few minutes, they pulled over and got out of the car near a crew of grape pickers who were taking a cigarette break by the roadside. There were about a dozen dark-skinned workers talking to a man who seemed to be in charge. Gamay introduced themselves as American wine buyers. The man frowned when she explained that Marcel had given them permission to drive through the vineyards.
"Oh, that one," the man said with a frown. He said his name was Guy Marchand and he was the foreman of the work crew.
"They are guest workers from Senegal," he said. "They work very hard, so I go easy on them."
"We stopped at the bistro and talked to Bertrand," Gamay said. "He told us the wine produced here is wonderful."
"Oui. C'est vrai. Come, I'll show you the vines."
He waved the grape pickers back to work and led the Trouts down a line of vines. He was a voluble talker and enthusiastic about his work, and the Trouts had no need to do their wine snob act. They had only to nod their heads as Guy went on about soil, climate and grapes. He stopped at a vine trellis and plucked a few grapes, which he handed to Gamay and Paul. He squeezed the grapes, sniffed them and tasted the juice with the tip of his tongue. They followed suit, clucking with admiration. They headed back to the road and saw that the workers were dumping grapes into the back of a truck.
"Where is the wine bottled?" Paul said.
"On the estate itself," Guy said. "Monsieur Emil wants to make sure every bottle is accounted for."
"Who is Monsieur Emil?" Gamay said.
"Emil Fauchard is the owner of these vineyards."
"Do you think it would be possible to meet Monsieur Fauchard?" Gamay said.
"No, he keeps to himself."
"So you never see him?"
"Oh yes, we see him," Marchand said. He rolled his eyes and pointed toward the sky.
Both Trouts looked up. "I don't understand," Gamay said.
"He flies over in his little red plane to keep watch."
Guy went on to explain that Emil personally dusted the crops. He told them that Emil had once dusted one of the work crews with pesticides. Some workers became violently ill and had to be transported to the hospital. They were all illegal immigrants, so didn't complain, but Marchand threatened to quit and the workers were given paltry gifts of money in compensation. He'd been told the dusting was an accident, although it was clear from the tone of his voice that he thought Emil had done it on purpose. But the Fauchards had paid him well and he didn't complain. While Marchand talked, the workers finished loading the truck. Paul's eyes followed the truck as it trundled along the dirt road. After going about a quarter of a mile, it took a left-hand turn and headed toward a gate in the electrified fence. As a fisherman, Paul had developed a keen eye for detail and he could see a couple of guards standing in front of the gate. He watched the truck slow down, then it was waved through and the gate closed behind it.
Paul tapped Gamay's shoulder and said, "I think it's time to go."
They thanked Marchand, got in their car and headed back to the main road that would take them out of the vineyards.
"Interesting conversation," Gamay said. "Emil sounds just as lovely as Kurt described him." Paul only grunted in return. Gamay was used to Paul's sometimes taciturn nature, a trait he had inherited from his New England forebears, but detected something deeper in his monosyllabic reply. "Is there anything wrong?"
"I'm fine. The story about the 'accidental' dusting got me thinking again about all the misery Emil and his family have caused. They're responsible for the death of Dr. MacLean and his scientific colleagues, and that Englishman, Cavendish. Who knows how many more they've killed through the years?"
Gamay nodded. "I can't get those poor mutants out of my mind. They've had to endure a living death."
Paul whacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "It makes me want to punch someone in the nose."
Gamay was surprised at the uncharacteristic outburst. She arched an eyebrow. "We'll have to figure out a way to get past that fence and guards before we do any nose punching."
"That may be sooner than you think," Paul said with a smile, and he began to describe his plan.
39
SEBASTIAN SEARCHED Austin with a rough hand, relieving him of his gun, and then ordered him to move toward the stairs. They climbed the stairway and went along the Y-shaped passageway and up the wooden ladder to the ice cavern. A loud hissing came from the cavern and a steam cloud obscured its opening. Austin closed his eyes against the hot swirling steam and when he opened them he saw a silhouette in the mist.
Sebastian called out to the figure. Emil Fauchard materialized from the steam cloud like a magician making his appearance onstage. When he saw Austin, his lips contorted in rage and his pale features writhed into a Greek mask of fury. Wrath boiled within him like hot oil and he seemed barely able to contain himself. Then his mouth softened into a mirthless smile that was even worse. He closed a nozzle valve on the hose he was holding and the steam dissipated.
"Hello, Austin," he said in a knife-edged voice. "Sebastian and I hoped we'd meet again after you left our costume party without saying good-bye. But I must admit I expected you to go to the château to rescue your lady friend."
"I couldn't resist your warm snakelike personality," Austin said, his voice cool. "And I never did thank you for the loan of your plane. Why did you kill Lessard?"
"Who?"
"The plant manager."
"He had outlived his usefulness as soon as he drained the tunnels. I let him live until the last moment, letting him think he could stop the turbine and bring in outside help." Fauchard laughed at the memory.
Austin smiled as if he appreciated Fauchard's evil humor. He had to use all the self-discipline at his command to resist the fatal urge to tear the Frenchman's head off. He bided his time, knowing that he was in no position to take revenge.
"I saw your plane on the lake," Austin said. "It's a little cold for scuba diving."
"Your concern is appreciated. The Morane-Saulnier was exactly where you said it would be."
Austin glanced around the cavern. "You went through a great deal of trouble to flood this place," Austin said. "Why drain it again?"
The smile dissolved into a frown. "At the time, we wanted to keep Jules locked away from the prying eyes of the world."
"What changed your mind?"
"My mother wanted Jules's body back."
"I was unaware that the Fauchard family was so sentimental about its kinfolk."
"There's a lot about us you don't know."
"Glad I could make it to his coming-out party. How is the old boy?"
"See for yourself," Emil said, and stepped aside.
A section of wall had been melted and chipped away to create a blue grotto. Jules Fauchard lay on the raised platform like a human sacrifice to the god of the glacier. The body was on its side, curled up in a fetal position. Jules was still wearing his heavy leather flying coat and gloves, and his black boots were as shiny as if they had just been polishe
d. He wore a parachute harness, but the actual parachute had been ripped off by powerful glacial forces. Although the corpse had been locked in the ice for nearly a century, the cold had kept it well preserved. The skin on the face and hands had a burnished copper look and the heavy handlebar mustache was coated with frost.
The hawk nose and firm jaw on the frozen face matched the features of the man in the Fauchard family gallery. Austin was especially interested in the hole that had punctured the fur-trimmed leather aviator's cap.
"Nice of your sentimental family to give Jules a going-away present," Austin said.
"What are you talking about?"
Austin gestured toward the hole. "The bullet in his head."
Emil sneered. "Jules was on his way to see the pope's emissary when he was shot out of the sky," Emil said. "He carried documents that would prove our family's complicity in starting the Great War. He also wanted to offer the world a scientific discovery that would be a boon to all mankind. He hoped to avert war with his actions."
"Laudable and unusual goals for a Fauchard," Austin said.
"He was a fool. This is where his altruism landed him."
"What happened to the documents he carried with him?"
"They were useless, ruined by water."
"Then it was all a big waste of time."
"Not at all. Look. You are here. And you will wish that you were chained in the château catacombs when I am through." Emil pointed to the ragged edge of ice that framed the opening to the grotto. "See?
The ice is already re-forming. In a few hours, the tomb will again be resealed. And this time you will be inside, keeping Jules company."
Austin's mind was racing.
Where the hell was Zavala?
"I thought your mother wanted the body."
"What do I care about the body? My mother won't always be in power. I intend to lead the Fauchards to their greatest achievements. Enough stalling. I'm not going to indulge your pathetic effort to forestall the inevitable, Austin. You stole my airplane and treated it shabbily, and have caused me a great deal of trouble. Get over there next to Jules."
Austin stayed where he was. "Your family didn't give a rat's ass about being blamed for the war. It was an open secret that you and the other arms merchants wanted the bullets to fly. It was something bigger than any war. Jules was carrying the formula for eternal youth."
A startled expression flashed across Emil's face. "What do you know?"
"I know that the Fauchards will destroy anyone who stands in the way of their goal of living forever." He glanced at. the frozen corpse of Jules. "Even a family member proved to be expendable when it came to the fountain of youth."
Emil studied Austin's face. "You're an intelligent man, Austin. Wouldn't you admit that the secret of eternal life is worth killing for?"
"Yes," Austin said with a wolfish grin. "If you're the one being killed."
"Your civilized veneer is wearing thin," Emil said with a chuckle. "Think of the infinite possibilities. An elite group of immortals imbued with the wisdom of ages could rule the world. We'd be like gods to the life-deprived."
Austin glanced at Emil's henchman. "What about Sebastian over there? Does he fit in with your group of elites? Or will he join the rest of the 'life-deprived,' as you call them?"
The question caught Emil by surprise. "Of course," he said after a moment. "Sebastian's loyalty will earn him a place in my pantheon. Will you join me, old friend?"
The hulking man opened his mouth to reply but said nothing. He had caught the hesitation in Emil's voice and there was confusion in his eyes.
Austin twisted the verbal knife. "Don't count on living forever, Sebastian. Emil's mother wants you out of the picture."
"He's lying," Emil said.
"Why would I lie? Your boss here intends to kill me, no matter what I say. Madame Fauchard told me at the masquerade ball that she had ordered Emil to get rid of you. We both know Emil always does what his mother tells him to do."
A doubtful expression came to the bland face. Emil saw himself losing control of the situation.
"Shoot him in the arms and legs," he barked. "Make sure you don't kill him. I want him to beg for death."
Sebastian stood there, unmoving. "Not yet," he said. "I want to hear more."
Emil uttered a curse and snatched the gun from Sebastian's hand. He aimed at Austin's knee.
"You'll soon find that your life is all too long."
Austin's ploy to turn Sebastian against Emil had bought him a little time, but it had failed, as he knew it would in the end. The master-and-servant bond between the two men was too strong to be dissolved by a few doubts. He braced himself for the shattering pain.
But instead of a gunshot, he heard a sharp hissing sound from the passageway outside the ice cave. Then a hot cloud of steam surged into the chamber.
Emil had turned his head in reflex toward the source of the noise. Austin lunged forward in a low boxing stance and drove his right fist into Fauchard's midsection. Fauchard let out an explosion of air and his legs buckled. The gun flew from his fingers.
Sebastian saw his master under attack, and he tried to grab Austin by the neck. Instead of trying to elude Sebastian, Austin bulled right at him, using his palm to straight-arm the big man under the chin. As Sebastian reeled from the attack, Austin shouldered him aside and then sprinted through the blinding steam.
He heard Zavala calling. "Kurt, over here!"
Zavala stood in the passageway holding a cutoff section of hose that was spewing hot water onto the walls to create the cloud that rolled into the ice cavern. Zavala dropped the hose, grabbed Austin and led him through the steam cloud. They could hear Emil shouting in incoherent rage.
Gunfire raked the passageway. Austin and Zavala were racing down the stairs and the bullets went high. Hearing the gunfire, the rest of Fauchard's men emerged from the lab trailer. They saw Austin and Zavala and gave chase. As they made their way into the tunnel, Zavala got off two quick shots to give their pursuers something to think about. He was still limping, but managed a loping run, and they made it back to the sluice gate Sebastian had blown off. They plunged through the opening a second ahead of a hail of bullets.
Austin searched his pockets for the tunnel map. It was nowhere to be found. He remembered he had left it in the Citröen. They must get back to Fifi. He pictured the system in his mind. The flow in the system could be manipulated in the same way electricity pulses through the grid on a circuit board.
They headed back to the Citröen, only to halt at the sound of voices echoing along the passageway ahead. Austin led the way into another tunnel and he and Zavala were able to make their way in roundabout fashion back to their intended route. The detour cost them precious minutes that allowed Fauchard to organize the chase, and Austin wasn't surprised when they heard Emil's voice behind them eerily exhorting his men on.
Austin and Zavala had been proceeding with haste tempered with caution, but they picked up the pace, following a bewildering course of lefts and rights. Austin was acting mostly on gut instinct, trusting the internal compass that he carried around in his head and using a crude form of land-based dead reckoning.
Despite Austin's fine-tuned sense of direction, the detours took their toll. He lost his bearings completely. Emil's voice was getting closer. Austin was as close to despair as he had ever been when they came to an intersection of four tunnels. Austin's coral-blue eyes probed the gloom.
"This looks familiar," Zavala said.
"We're near the mid station control booth," Austin said.
They entered the right-hand tunnel that would take them back to Fifi, only to stop after taking a few steps. Rough male voices could be heard coming in their direction. They ran back to the intersection and tried going straight, but a sluice gate barred their way. They came back to the intersection. The distant sound of booted footfalls was coming from the passageway at the left.
"We're surrounded," Zavala said.
A desperate pl
an was hatching in Austin's brain. He turned into the left-hand tunnel.
Zavala held back. "Hold on, Kurt. Fauchard's goons are coming that way, too."
"Trust me," Austin said. "But do it fast. We don't have a second to spare."
Zavala shrugged and sprinted into the dimly lit passageway a step behind Austin. He mumbled to himself in Spanish as they splashed through the puddle-covered floor. He had worked with Austin on many missions since joining the NUMA Special Assignments Team. Zavala had developed an abiding faith in Austin's judgment. There were times, however, like the present, when Austin's behavior seemed completely irrational, and that confidence was put to the test.
Zavala pictured them bumping into Fauchard's thugs in a deadly version of a Keystone Kops silent movie. But they reached the control booth unimpeded and scrambled up the ladder onto the catwalk. Fauchard's men materialized in the dim tunnel and gave out with a hoarse cry of triumph at having brought their game to roost. They unleashed a blistering attack on the booth.
Bullets pinged and ricocheted off the metal catwalk, the tunnel walls amplifying the racket to D-day proportions. Austin dove into the control booth, pulled Zavala in behind him and slammed the door shut.
The rest of Fauchard's men heard the gunfire, came running and joined in the turkey shoot. They peppered the booth with hundreds of rounds. The windows disintegrated and the sustained barrage of lead threatened to punch through the steel walls.
Austin crawled across the shards of glass littering the floor, got up on his knees and, keeping his head low, ran his hands onto the control panel keyboard. A diagram of the tunnel system appeared on the screen. The racket of bullets slamming into the booth was deafening and Austin tried to stay focused. He typed out several commands and was gratified when he saw the colors change on the diagram.
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