Trojan Odyssey (42 page)

“Do not count your blessings, Mr. Pitt. I don't see a happy life in your future.”

“Funny, you don't look like a gypsy.”

He nudged Flidais softly in the back of one shoulder with his gun and followed her from the room. He stopped in the doorway and turned to Epona. “Before I forget, it wouldn't be wise to open the tunnels and divert the South Equatorial Current to send Europe into a deep freeze. I know of a lot of people who might not like it.”

He took Flidais by the arm and led her lively but not hurriedly through the arched doorway, down the hallway and into the elevator. Once inside, Flidais stood straight and smoothed her flowing gown. “You're not only boorish, Mr. Pitt, but you're exceedingly stupid as well.”

“Oh, how so?”

“You'll never leave the building. There are security personnel on every floor. You don't stand a prayer of passing through the lobby without being apprehended.”

“Who said anything about going through the lobby?”

Flidais's eyes widened as the elevator moved up and stopped on the roof. He prodded her out onto the roof as the doors opened. “I don't mean to rush you, but things are about to heat up around here.”

She saw the guards lying on the ground with Giordino standing over them, nonchalantly sweeping the barrel of an assault rifle from one head to the other. Then her gaze turned to the idle helicopter and she knew any hope of her security guards intercepting Pitt and his partner had flown away on the night air. Seeking a final desperate avenue, her eyes blazed at Pitt. “You can't pilot a helicopter.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Pitt answered in a patient tone. “Both Al and I can fly this bird.”

Giordino glanced at Flidais, took in her elegant gown and smiled nastily. “I see you found Rita. You pick her up at a party?”

“A party of two downing expensive vintage champagne. Her name is Flidais. She's coming with us. Keep an eye on her.”

“Both eyes,” Giordino said icily.

Pitt glanced briefly at Flidais as he entered the helicopter. The glare had gone out of her eyes. The calm and lack of fear had altered to trepidation.

He briefly glanced at the helicopter before he moved swiftly into the cockpit and sat in the pilot's seat. It was a McDonnell-Douglas Explorer model with twin Pratt & Whitney turboshaft engines built by MD Helicopters of Mesa, Arizona. He was pleased to see that it was a rotor craft with an antitorque system that eliminated the tail rotor.

He checked to be sure the fuel shutoff valve was on and took the cyclic and collective friction off. Then, with the pedals and throttles moving smoothly, the circuit breakers in and the mixture to full rich, he turned the master switch on. Next came the ignition, and both engines began turning over, eventually reaching idling rpms. Finally, Pitt made certain all warning lights were out.

He leaned out the side window and shouted to Giordino over the whine of the twin turbines. “Jump aboard!”

Giordino was not as polite as Pitt. He literally lifted Flidais off her feet and flung her inside the rotor craft. Then he climbed in and closed the big sliding door. The interior was stylish and elegant with four large leather seats with burled-walnut consoles, one containing a compact office system with computer, fax and a satellite television phone. The console between the opposite seats held a bar with crystal decanters and glasses.

The Lowenhardts sat with seat belts buckled, staring mutely at Flidais who was still sprawled on the floor where Giordino had thrown her. Giordino reached under her arms, pulled her erect and dropped her into a seat, buckling her seat belt. He handed the assault rifle to Claus Lowenhardt.

“If she lifts her little finger, shoot her.”

Having no love for his former female captors, Claus relished the opportunity.

“Our agents will be waiting for you when we land in Managua,” Flidais said scornfully.

“That's comforting to know.”

Giordino turned quickly, entered the cockpit and dropped into the copilot's seat. Pitt glanced at the elevator doors and saw them close. Alerted by the woman in the suite, security guards were waiting for it to descend before they could swarm up to the roof. He reached down and pulled up on the collective, lifting the helicopter into the air. Then he pushed the cyclic forward, the nose dipped and the MD Explorer leaped from the roof of the building. Pitt quickly brought the aircraft up to its top speed of one hundred and eighty-four miles an hour, soaring over the Odyssey facility toward the airstrip stretching between the volcanic mountains. As soon as he reached the slopes of the Madera volcano, he banked the Explorer around the peak and brought it down less than thirty feet above the trees before crossing over the shore above the waters of the lake.

“Not heading for Managua, I hope,” said Giordino, putting on his earphones. “Her Royal Highness said her flunkies will be waiting for us.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Pitt said with a wide grin. “That's why we're heading west out over the Pacific before cutting south to San José, Costa Rica.”

“Do we have enough fuel?”

“Once we take her to cruising speed, we should make it with a couple of gallons to spare.”

Pitt skimmed the surface, staying out of contact with Odyssey's radar systems, before crossing over the spit of land on the west side of the lake. Ten miles out to sea, he turned south and slowly increased altitude as Giordino locked in a course for San José. For the rest of the flight, Giordino kept a wary eye on the fuel gauges.

There was a light overcast, not thick enough for rain but just enough to blot out the stars. Pitt was tired, more worn-out than he could ever remember. He turned over the controls to Giordino and slouched in his seat, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. There was still one more job to do before he could allow himself the luxury of sleep. He pulled the satellite phone from a waterproof bag and dialed Sandecker's private line.

The admiral's voice came through the earpiece almost immediately. “Yes!”

“We're out,” Pitt said wearily.

“About time.”

“There was little need for an extended tour.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a stolen helicopter on our way to San José, Costa Rica.”

Sandecker paused to take it in. “You didn't feel you had to snoop around the facility during the daylight hours?”

“We had a break,” said Pitt, fighting to keep from nodding off.

“You collected the data we need?” Sandecker asked impatiently.

“We have everything,” replied Pitt. “Through the use of scientists he took as hostages, Specter has perfected fuel cell technology by using nitrogen instead of hydrogen. The Red Chinese are cranking out millions of electrical heat-generating units, which will be distributed and ready for sale when they open the tunnels and the freeze hits the U.S. coast and Europe this winter.”

“Are you telling me this crazy scheme is all for the sale of fuel cells?” Sandecker said incredulously.

“You're talking hundreds of billions of dollars, not to mention the power that will come from owning the monopoly. No matter how you slice it, the world economy will be in Specter's pocket when the first snow starts to fall.”

“You're certain Specter has perfected the technology when the best minds in the world have yet to make a breakthrough,” Sandecker persisted.

“Specter
has
the best minds,” Pitt countered. “You'll get the story from two of them who worked on the project.”

“They're with you?” Sandecker said with growing anticipation.

“Sitting just behind me along with the woman who murdered Renee Ford.”

Sandecker looked like a batter who had hit a home run with his eyes shut. “You have her too?”

“Charter a plane for us in San José and we'll set her in your lap by this time tomorrow.”

“I'll put Rudi right on it,” said Sandecker, pleasure and excitement evident in his voice. “Come to the office with your party as soon as you land.”

There was no reply.

“Dirk, are you still there?”

Pitt had dozed off and was blissfully unaware that he had broken the connection.

T
HE
A
IR
C
ANADA
jet bumped through a thick cloud whose soft white curves showed the first orange tint from the setting sun. As the plane began its slow descent toward Guadeloupe, Summer gazed through her window and watched the deep, dark blue-purple water below turn to light blue and then turquoise as the aircraft flew over the reefs and lagoons. Sitting next to her in the aisle seat, Dirk studied a chart of the waters around the Isles des Saintes, a group of islands to the south of Guadeloupe.

She stared with growing curiosity as the two main islands of Basse-Terre and Grande-Terre merged together in the shape of a butterfly. Basse-Terre formed the western wing and was blanketed with thickly forested hills and mountains. Surrounded by lush ferns, its rain forest contains some of the Caribbean's highest waterfalls, which flow down from the island's loftiest peak, La Soufriere, a smoldering volcano that rises above forty-eight hundred feet. Both islands, with a total land area the size of Luxembourg, were separated by a narrow channel filled with mangroves called the Riviere Salee.

The eastern wing of the butterfly, Grande-Terre was a contrast to Basse-Terre. The island is mostly dominated by flat terrain and rolling hills, much of which is cultivated in sugarcane, the major source for the three distilleries that produce Guadeloupe's fine rums.

Summer's heart rose in anticipation of enjoying some of the island's many black and white sand beaches that were romantically edged with swaying palms. Deep down, she knew it was probably wishful thinking. Once she and Dirk had finished their survey for Odysseus' lost fleet, Admiral Sandecker would no doubt order them home without allowing a few days of rest and enjoyment. She made up her mind to stay, regardless of the consequences of incurring the admiral's wrath.

The plane made a wide circle that took it over Pointe-a-Pitre, the commercial capital of Guadeloupe. She looked down at the red tile roofs mingled with those of corrugated metal. The pleasant town was embellished by a picturesque square in its center surrounded by outdoor shops and cafes. The narrow streets seemed busy and lively, with people heading home for dinner. Few drove cars. Many of them walked while most rode motorcycles and motor scooters. Lights were already beginning to flicker on in the little houses around the port city. Ships were tied to docks, with little fishing boats coming into harbor after a day's catch.

The pilot settled the plane on the landing approach to Guadeloupe's Pole Caraibes Airport. The landing gear thumped as the wheels dropped and locked, and the wing flaps hummed into a downward position. For a brief instant, the last of the setting sun flashed into the windows before the plane settled onto the runway with the usual bounce, protest of tires and shrill whine of the reverse thrust of the turbines as the plane braked before taxiing to the terminal.

Summer always loved early evenings in the tropics. The offshore breezes usually came up and blew away the worst of the day's heat and humidity. She loved the smell of wet vegetation after a rain and the aroma of the ever-present tropical flowers.

“How's your French?” Dirk asked Summer as they descended the boarding stairs from their aircraft at the Guadeloupe airport.

“About as good as your Swahili,” she said, looking radiant in a vibrant flowered skirt and matching blouse. “Why do you ask?”

“Only the tourists speak English. The locals speak French or a French-Creole dialect.”

“Since neither of us majored in languages in school, we'll just have to use sign language.”

Dirk gave his sister a long look and then laughed. He handed her a small book. “Here's an English–French dictionary. I'll lean on you for any translations.”

They walked into the terminal and followed the first passengers off the plane to Health and Immigration. The immigration agent looked up at them before he stamped their passports. “In Guadeloupe for business or pleasure?” he asked in fluent English.

Summer wrinkled her pert nose at Dirk. “Pleasure,” she replied, flashing what appeared to be a large diamond ring on her left hand. “We're on our honeymoon.”

The agent coolly eyed her breasts, nodded and smiled approvingly as he pounded the stamp on blank passport pages. “Enjoy your stay.” He said it in a tone that bordered on the un-virtuous.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Dirk asked, “What is this stuff about our being on a honeymoon? And where did you get that ring?”

“I thought acting as newlyweds was a good cover,” she answered. “The ring is glass. It cost me all of eight dollars.”

“I hope no one takes a close look at it or they'll think I'm the cheapest husband in the world.”

They walked into the luggage area, where they had to wait twenty minutes for their bags to arrive. After loading them onto a cart, they cleared customs and moved into the lobby of the terminal. A small crowd of thirty or so people stood waiting to greet friends and relatives. One little man in a white suit with the medium-dark skin of a Creole held a little sign that read:
PITT
.

“That's us,” said Dirk. “This is Summer and I'm Dirk Pitt.”

“Charles Moreau.” The little man held out his hand. His eyes were as black as ink and he had a nose that looked sharp enough to fight a duel. He came up to Summer's shoulders in a body that was as slim as a sapling. “Your flight was only ten minutes late. That has to be some kind of record.” Then he bowed, took Summer's hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles in true continental fashion. “Admiral Sandecker said you were a handsome couple.”

“I assume he also told you we are brother and sister.”

“He did. Is there a problem?”

Dirk glanced at Summer, who smiled in mock innocence. “Just wanted to be clear on that point.”

Summer and Moreau moved through the exit doors while Dirk followed with the baggage cart. An attractive raven-haired woman wearing the traditional Creole dress—a full vividly colored skirt in a madras plaid of orange and yellow, matching headdress and a white lace blouse with petticoat and scarf draped over one shoulder—walked squarely into Dirk from the side. Wise in the ways of travel, he immediately patted the pocket that held his wallet, but it was still in place.

She stood there, massaging her shoulder. “I'm so sorry. It was my fault.”

“Are you hurt?” Dirk asked solicitously.

“Now I know what it feels like to run into a tree.” Then she looked up at him and smiled openly. “I'm Simone Raizet. Perhaps I'll see you around town.”

“Perhaps,” Pitt replied, without offering his name.

The woman nodded at Summer. “You have a handsome and charming man.”

“He can be on occasion,” Summer said with a trace of sarcasm.

The woman then turned and walked into the terminal.

“What do you make of that?” said Pitt, bemused.

“You can't say she wasn't brazen,” muttered Summer.

“Most strange,” said Moreau. “She gives the impression she lives here. I was born on this island, and I've never laid eyes on her before.”

Summer looked vaguely concerned. “If you ask me, the collision was preplanned.”

“I agree,” said Dirk. “She was after something. I don't know what. But our encounter didn't look accidental.”

Moreau led them across the street to the parking lot and stopped at a BMW 525 sedan. He pushed the security lock on his key ring and opened the trunk. Dirk deposited the luggage and they settled into the seats. Moreau pulled out onto the road leading to Pointe-a-Pitre.

“I've reserved a small suite with two rooms for you at the Canella Beach Hotel, one of our most popular hotels, and one where a young couple on a budget might stay. Admiral Sandecker's instructions stated that you were to keep a low profile during your search for treasure.”

“Historical treasure,” Summer corrected him.

“He's right,” said Dirk. “If word leaked that NUMA was on a treasure hunt, we'd be mobbed.”

“And thrown off the islands,” added Moreau. “Our government has strict laws protecting our underwater heritage.”

“If we're successful,” said Summer, “your people will inherit an epoch-making discovery.”

“All the more reason to keep your expedition secret.”

“Are you an old friend of the admiral?”

“I met James many years ago when I was the Guadeloupe consul in New York. Since I've retired, he hires me on occasion for NUMA business in and around this part of the Caribbean.”

Moreau drove through the lush green hills down to the harbor and around the city along the southeast shore of Grande-Terre, until he reached the outskirts of the town of Gosier. Then he took a small dirt road that wound around back to the main thoroughfare.

Summer gazed through her window and admired the houses that sat amid lush, beautifully maintained gardens. “Giving us a tour of the country?”

“A taxicab has been hanging on us rather closely since we left the airport,” said Moreau. “I wanted to see if he was following us.”

Dirk turned in his seat and peered through the rear window. “The green Ford?”

“The same.”

Moreau left the residential section and skirted around a steady stream of buses, tourists on motor scooters and the city's fleet of taxis. The driver of the green Ford taxi struggled to keep up, but was hindered by the slow-moving traffic. Moreau expertly threaded his way around two buses that blocked both sides of the road. He made a sharp right turn onto a narrow street that ran between rows of homes whose quaint architectural style was French Colonial. He made another left-hand turn and then another at the next block until he was on the main road again. The taxi swung over a path beside the road around the buses, gained the lost distance and stuck to Moreau's rear bumper like glue.

“It's interested in us, all right,” said Dirk.

“Let us see if I can lose him,” said Moreau.

He waited until there was a break in the traffic. Then, instead of turning, he shot straight ahead and darted through the traffic onto the street across the main road. The taxi driver was impeded by the stream of motor scooters, cars and buses a good thirty seconds before he could break through and take up the chase.

Turning a corner and temporarily losing sight of the taxi, Moreau swung into the driveway of a house and parked behind a large oleander bush. A few moments later the green taxi swept past the driveway at high speed and was soon lost in a dust cloud. They remained waiting for a few minutes before Moreau backed out of the driveway and joined the traffic rush again on the main road.

“We've lost him, but I'm afraid it may be only temporary.”

“Having missed us,” mused Dirk, “he may pull the same trick and wait for us.”

“I doubt it,” said Summer confidently. “My money says he's still on a wild-goose chase.”

“You lose.” Dirk laughed, pointing through the windshield toward the green Ford that was parked along the side of the road, its driver talking excitedly over a cell phone. “Pull over next to him, Charles.”

Coming up behind the taxi slowly, Moreau suddenly pulled around and stopped inches away. Dirk leaned out the window and knocked on the door of the taxi.

“Are you looking for us?”

The startled driver took one look at Dirk's grinning face, dropped the cell phone, jammed his foot on the accelerator and tore off down the palm-lined road toward the town of Sainte-Anne, his wheels spinning in the gravel of the shoulder until they struck the asphalt and shrieked in protest. Moreau pulled the car over and stopped, watching the taxi disappear in the traffic ahead.

“The lady at the airport and now this,” Moreau said quietly. “Who can be interested in a pair of representatives from NUMA on a diving expedition?”

“The word
treasure
is a powerful aphrodisiac and spreads like an epidemic,” said Summer. “Somehow, word of our intent arrived ahead of us.”

Dirk stared thoughtfully into the distance at the point in the road where the taxi had vanished. “We'll know for certain tomorrow who's following in our wake when we sail over to Branwyn Island.”

“Are you familiar with Branwyn Island?” Summer asked Moreau.

“Enough to know that it's dangerous to go near it,” Moreau said quietly. “It used to be called Isle de Rouge, French for red, because of its reddish volcanic soil. The new owner renamed it. I'm told Branwyn was a Celtic goddess known as the Venus of the Northern Seas and the deity of love and beauty. Conversely, among the more superstitious natives it lives up to its reputation as the island of death.”

Dirk was enjoying the warm, scented breeze through his open window. “Because of treacherous reefs or heavy surf?”

“No,” answered Moreau, braking so two children in colorful dresses could cross the road. “The person who owns the island does not like trespassers.”

“According to our computer department's data search,” said Summer, “the owner is a woman by the name of Epona Eliade.”