Lost City nf-5

by Clive Cussler

  "Mon Dieu!" Skye exclaimed when she saw the massive granite pile that loomed ahead on a low hill.

  Austin's eyes took in the conical turrets and the high, crenellated walls.

  "We seem to have passed through a time warp into fourteenth-century Transylvania."

  Skye said in hushed tones, "It's magnificent in an ominous sort of way."

  Austin was less enthralled with the chateau's architecture. He gave her a sidelong glance. "They used to say the same thing about Castle Dracula."

  He wheeled the Rolls onto a white gravel driveway that encircled an ornate fountain whose motif was a group of armor-clad men hacking each other to death in bloody combat. The bronze faces on the struggling warriors were twisted in agony.

  "Charming," Austin said.

  "Ugh! It's absolutely grotesque."

  Austin parked the Rolls near an arched bridge that spanned a wide moat. A swampy odor rose from the greenish-brown surface of the stagnant water. They walked across the bridge and drawbridge and passed through a gate into the expansive cobblestone-paved courtyard that surrounded the chateau and separated the building from the encircling walls. No one came to greet them so they made their way across the courtyard and climbed the stairs to a terrace that ran along the front of the house.

  Austin put his hand on the massive knocker that decorated the iron-banded wooden door. "Does this look familiar?"

  "It's the same eagle design as on the helmet and the plane."

  Nodding in agreement, Austin lifted the knocker and let it drop twice.

  "I predict that a toothless hunchback named Igor will open the door," he said.

  "If that happens, I'm running for the car."

  "If that happens, I'd advise you not to get in my way," Austin said. The man who answered the doorbell's ring was neither toothless nor hunched. He was tall and blond and dressed in white tennis clothes. He could have been in his forties, or fifties, although it was hard to tell his age because his face was unlined and he was as trim as a professional athlete.

  "You must be Mr. Austin," the man said with a bright smile, his hand extended in greeting.

  "That's right. And this is my assistant, Mademoiselle Bouchet." "I'm Emil Fauchard. A pleasure to meet you. You're very kind to come all the way from Paris. My mother has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Please come this way."

  He ushered his guests into a commodious foyer and led the way at a brisk pace along a carpeted hallway. Painted on the high vaulted ceilings were mythological scenes showing nymphs, satyrs and centaurs in unearthly woodland settings. As they followed their guide, Skye leaned into Austin's ear. "So much for your Igor theory."

  "It was only a hunch," Austin said with astraight face. Skye rolled her eyes, the only appropriate response to Austin's pun. The hallway seemed endless, although it was hardly a boring walk. Decorating the dark wood-paneled walls were enormous tapestries of medieval hunting scenes showing life-sized figures of nobles and squires whose arrows were making pincushions out of hapless deer and wild boar.

  Fauchard stopped at a door, which he opened, and gestured for them to enter.

  The chamber they stepped into was a stark contrast to the chateau's oversized architecture. It was small and intimate and with its low beamed ceilings and walls lined with antiquated books, it was like a room in a country cottage. A woman sat in a leather chair in a corner of the room, reading by the light streaming through a tall window.

  "Mother," Fauchard softly called out. "Our visitors have arrived. This is Mr. Austin and his assistant, Mademoiselle Bouchet." Skye had chosen her alias out of the Paris phone book.

  The woman smiled and put her book down, then stood to greet them. She was tall and almost military in her posture. A black business suit and lavender scarf set off her pale complexion and silver hair. Moving as gracefully as a ballerina, she came over and shook hands. Her grip was unexpectedly strong.

  "Please sit down," she said, indicating two comfortable leather chairs. Glancing at her son, she said, "Our guests must be thirsty after their long drive." She spoke English with no accent.

  "I'll attend to it on my way out," Emil said.

  a Moments later, a servant appeared bearing cold bottled water and glasses on a tray. Austin studied Madame Fauchard as she dismissed the servant and poured their glasses full. As with her son, it was difficult to guess her age. She could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old. Whatever her age, she was quite beautiful in a classic sense. Except for a spidery network of wrinkles, her complexion was as flawless as a cameo and her gray eyes were alert and intelligent. Her smile ranged from beguiling to the mysterious, and when she spoke her voice had only a few of the cracks in it that can come with old age.

  "It was very kind of you and your assistant to travel all the way from Paris, Mr. Austin."

  "Not at all, Madame Fauchard. You must be very busy with your duties and I'm pleased that you were able to see us on such short notice."

  She threw her hands up in a gesture of astonishment.

  "How could I not see you after hearing about your discovery?

  Frankly, I was stunned when I learned that the body found in Le Dormeur glacier could be that of my great-uncle, Jules Fauchard. I have flown over the Alps many times, never suspecting that an illustrious member of my family lay frozen in the ice below. Are you quite certain it's Jules?"

  "I never saw the body, and can't be sure about the identity," he said. "But the Morane-Saulnier airplane I discovered in the glacial lake was traced to Jules Fauchard through a manufacturer's serial number. Circumstantial evidence, but compelling nonetheless."

  Madame Fauchard stared off into space. "It could only be Jules," she said, more to herself than to her guests. Rallying her thoughts, she said, "He disappeared in 1914 after taking off from here in his plane, a Morane-Saulnier. He loved to fly and had gone to French military flying schools, so he was quite accomplished at it. Poor man. He must have run out of fuel or encountered severe weather in the mountains."

  "This is a long way from Le Dormeur," Skye said. "What could have possessed him to fly all the way to the Alps?"

  Madame Fauchard responded with an indulgent smile. "He was quite mad, you know. It happens in the best of families." She turned back to Austin. "I understand you are with NUMA. Don't look surprised, your name has been all over the newspapers and television. It was very clever and daring of you to use a submarine to rescue the scientists trapped under the glacier."

  "I didn't do it alone. I had a great deal of help." "Modest as well as clever," she said, gazing at him with an expression that signified more than casual interest. "I read about the horrible man who attacked the scientists. What could he have wanted?"

  "A complicated question with no easy answers. He evidently wanted to make sure no one could ever retrieve the body. And he took a strongbox that may have held documents."

  "A pity," she said with a sigh. "Perhaps those documents could have shed light on my great-uncle's strange behavior. You asked what he was doing in the Alps, Mademoiselle Bouchet. I can only guess. You see, Jules suffered a great deal." "Was he ill?" Skye said.

  "No, but he was a sensitive man who loved art and literature. He should have been born into another family. Jules had problems being part of a family whose members were known as "Merchants of Death." "

  "That's understandable," Austin said. "We've been called worse, monsieur. Believe me. In one of those ironies of fate, Jules was a natural businessman. He was devious and his behind-the-scenes schemes would have done credit to a Machiavelli Our family company prospered under his hand."

  "That image doesn't seem to fit with what you've told me about his gentle character."

  "Jules hated the violence that was implicit in the wares he sold. But he reasoned that if we didn't make and sell arms, someone else would. He was a great admirer of Alfred Nobel. Like Nobel, he used much of the family fortune to promote peace. He saw himself as a balance of natural forces."

  "Something must have unbalanc
ed him."

  She nodded. "We believe it was the prospect of World War One. Pompous and ignorant leaders started the war, but it is no secret that they were pushed over the precipice by the arms merchants." "Like the Fauchards and the Krupps?"

  "The Krupps are arrivistes," she said, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something rotten. "They were nothing but glorified coal miners, parvenus who built their fortunes on the blood and sweat of others. The Fauchards had been in the arms business for centuries before the Krupps surfaced in the Middle Ages. What do you know about our family, Mr. Austin?"

  "Mostly that you're as secretive as an oyster." Madame Fauchard laughed. "When you're dealing with arms, secrecy is not a dirty word. However, I prefer to use the word discreet." She angled her head in thought then rose from her chair. "Please come with me. I'll show you something that will tell you more about the Fauchards than a thousand words."

  She guided them along the corridor to a set of tall arched doors emblazoned with a three-headed-eagle emblem in black steel.

  "This is the chateau's armory," she said, as they stepped through the doorway. "It is the heart and soul of the Fauchard empire."

  They were in an immense chamber whose walls soared to high, ribbed ceilings. The room seemed to be laid out in the shape of a cathedral. They were standing in a long, column-lined nave that was crossed by a transept, with the altar section behind it. The nave was lined with alcoves, but instead of statues of saints, the niches contained weapons apparently grouped according to time period. More armor and weapons could be seen on a second level that wrapped around the perimeter of the room.

  Directly in front of them, caught in mid charge were four lifelike knights and their huge stuffed mounts, all in full armor, lances extended as if defending the armory from interlopers.

  Skye surveyed the array with a professional eye. "The scope and extent of this collection is breathtaking."

  Madame Fauchard went over and stood next to the mounted knights. "These were the army tanks of their day," she said. "Imagine yourself as a poor infantryman, armed only with a lance, who sees these gentlemen bearing down on you at full gallop." She smiled, as if relishing the prospect.

  "Formidable," Skye said, "but not invincible as weapons and tactics advanced. The longbow had arrows that could puncture some armor at long range. A halberd could penetrate armor and a two-handed cutting sword of war could dispatch a knight if he could be

  pulled off his horse. All their armor would have been useless against firearms."

  "You have hit upon the heart of our family's success. Every development in weaponry would eventually be overcome with more advanced weaponry. Mademoiselle sounds as if she knows what she's talking about," Madame Fauchard said, raising a finely arched brow.

  "My brother made a hobby of ancient weapons. I couldn't help learning from him."

  "You learned well. Every piece in here was produced by the Fauchard family. What do you think of our family's artistry?"

  Skye examined the display in the nearest alcove and shook her head. "These helmets are primitive but extremely well made. Perhaps more than two thousand years old."

  "Bravo! They were produced in pre-Roman times."

  "I didn't know the Fauchards went back that far," Austin said.

  "I wouldn't be surprised if someone discovered a cave drawing of a Fauchard making a flint spearhead for a Neolithic client."

  "This chateau is quite a leap in time and geography from a Neolithic cave."

  "We have come a long way since our humble beginnings. Our family were armorers based in Cyprus, a crossroad of the commerce in the Mediterranean. The Crusaders arrived to build outposts on the island and they admired our craftsmanship. It was the custom of wealthy nobles to retain household armorers. My ancestors moved to France and eventually organized a number of craftsmen's guilds. The guild families intermarried and formed alliances with two other families."

  "Hence the three eagles on your coat of arms?"

  "You're quite observant, Monsieur Austin. Yes, but in time the other families were marginalized and the Fauchards eventually dominated the business. They controlled different specialty shops and sent agents throughout Europe. There was no end to the demand,

  from the Thirty Years War to Napoleon. The Franco-Prussian War was lucrative and set the stage for World War One." "Which brings us full circle to your great-uncle." She nodded. "Jules became morose as war seemed inevitable. By then we had grown into a cartel of arms and took on the name of Spear Industries. He tried to persuade our family to pull out of the arms race, but it was too late. As Lenin said at the time, Europe was like a barrel of gunpowder."

  "Which needed only the assassination of the Grand Duke Ferdinand to provide a spark."

  "The Grand Duke was a lout," she said, with a wave of her long fingers. "His death was less a spark than an excuse. The international arms industry had interlocking agreements and patents. Every bullet fired or bomb exploded by either side meant shared profits for the owners and stockholders. The Krupps made money from German deaths and Spear Industries from the death of French soldiers. Jules foresaw this would be the situation and the fact that he was ultimately responsible is probably what unhinged him." "Another casualty of the war?"

  "My great-uncle was an idealist. His passion brought him a premature and senseless death. The sad part of all this is that his death made no more difference than some poor soldier being gassed in the trenches. Only a few decades later, our leaders dragged us into another world war. Fauchard's factories were bombed to dust, our workers killed. We rapidly recouped our losses in the Cold War. But the world has changed."

  "It was still a pretty dangerous place the last time I looked," Austin said.

  "Yes, the weapons are more deadly than ever, but conflicts are more regional and shorter in length. Governments, like your own, have replaced the major arms dealers. Since I inherited the leadership of Spear Industries, we have divested our factories and we're essentially

  a holding company that subcontracts for goods and services. With the fear of rogue nations and terrorists, our business remains steady."

  "An amazing story," Austin said. "Thank you for being so forthcoming with your family history."

  "Back to the present," she said, with a nod of her head. "Mr. Austin, what are the prospects of retrieving the plane that you found in the lake?"

  "It would be a delicate job, but not impossible for a competent salvager. I can recommend a few names, if you'd like."

  "Thank you very much. We'd like to retrieve any property that is rightfully ours. Do you plan on returning to Paris today?" "That was our intention."

  "Bien. I'll show you the way out."

  Madame Fouchard led them along a different corridor whose walls were covered with hundreds of portraits. She paused in front of a painting of a man in a long leather coat.

  "This is my great-uncle Jules Fauchard," Madame Fauchard said.

  The man in the painting had an aquiline nose and a mustache and stood in front of a plane similar to the one Austin had seen at the French air museum. He was wearing the same helmet Skye had turned over to her friend Darnay.

  A soft gasp escaped from Skye's throat. It was barely audible, but Madame Fauchard stared at Skye and said, "Is there a problem, mademoiselle?"

  "No," Skye said, clearing her throat. "I was admiring that helmet. Is it in your armory collection?"

  Racine gave Skye a hard stare.

  "No. It is not."

  Austin tried to divert the direction of the conversation.

  "There is not much family resemblance to you or your son," he said.

  Racine smiled. "The Fauchards were coarse-featured, as you can see. We favor my grandfather, who was not a Fauchard by blood. He

  married into the Fauchard family and took their name as his. It was an arranged marriage, done to bring together two families in an alliance of convenience. There was no male heir to the Fauchards at the time, so they manufactured one."

  "You have a
fascinating family," Skye said.

  "You don't know the half of it." She gazed thoughtfully at Skye for a moment and smiled. "I just had a wonderful idea. Why don't you stay for dinner? I'm having a few guests over anyhow. We are putting on a masque, as in the old days. A little costume party."

  "It's a long drive back to Paris. Besides, we didn't bring costumes," Austin said.

  "You can stay here as our guests. We always have a few extra costumes. We'll find something appropriate. We have everything you'd need to make yourselves comfortable. You can get an early start in the morning. I won't take no for an answer."

  "You're very gracious, Madame Fouchard," Skye said. "We wouldn't want to impose."

  "No imposition at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I will talk to my son about tonight's arrangements. Please feel free to wander about the first floor of the chateau. The upper floors are living quarters."

  Without a further word, Madame Fauchard whisked off along the corridor, leaving them with only the Fauchard ancestors for company. "What was that all about?" Austin said, as Madame Fauchard disappeared around a corner. Skye clapped her hands and rubbed them together.

  "My plan worked! I purposely babbled on about my arms expertise in the armory to get her attention. Once I set the hook, I reeled her in. Look, Kurt, you said that the Fauchard family was the key to this business under the glacier and the attack at Darnay's shop. We couldn't simply leave with empty hands. What's the problem?" "You could be in danger. That's the problem. Your mouth dropped open when you saw the portrait of good ol' Jules. She knows you've seen the helmet."

  "That wasn't planned. I was really startled when I saw Jules wearing the helmet I recovered from the glacier. Look, I'm willing to take the chance. Besides, a costume party might be fun. She wouldn't try anything with guests around. She seems quite gracious and not the dragon lady I expected."

  Austin wasn't convinced. Madame Fauchard was a charming woman, but he suspected her Whistler's mother act was pure theater. He had seen the cloud pass over her face at Skye's reaction to the portrait above their heads. Madame Fauchard, not Skye, had set the hook and reeled them in. Warning bells were chiming in his brain, but he smiled anyway. He didn't want to alarm Skye. "Let's look around," he said.