The whole scene-the aborted escape and the killing of his cousin-had taken only a few seconds. Nighthawk had watched, frozen in place, but now he lunged forward and, despite Green's at- tempts to hold him back, broke from cover and ran toward his cousin's body.
Green scrambled after the young Indian and brought him down in a flying tackle. He was on his feet a second later, pulling Nighthawk to his feet by the scruff of his neck. They were clearly vis- ible in the bright glare of lights. Nighthawk saw the guns pointed in their direction, and his instincts took over.
He and Green dashed for the woods. Shots rang out and Green fell. Nighthawk stopped and went to help his companion, but the bullet had caught Green in the back of the head and destroyed his skull. Nighthawk turned and ran, geysers of earth erupting around his feet. He dove into the forest, while a fusillade from the plaza shredded the branches over his head. Under a shower of twigs and leaves, he dashed through the trees until he came to the edge of the lake and his feet pounded onto the dock.
He saw the Jet Skis and wished Green had kept one ignition key. Nighthawk unsheathed a hunting knife from his belt and sliced the mooring lines. Then he shoved the watercraft as far away from the dock as he could. He whipped the tarp from the canoe, pushed off and began to paddle furiously. He was in open water when he saw muzzle flashes from the dock area and heard the rattle of automatic- arms fire. The shooters were firing blind, and their bullets were hit- ting the water off to one side.
The canoe flew across the lake until it was out of range. Night- hawk continued to paddle with all his strength. Once he had gained the other shore, he could lose himself in the deep woods. It is never entirely dark on water, which catches and magnifies even the tiniest speck of light. But now, the lake around him began to glow as if it were infused with a luminescent chemical. He turned and saw that the light was not coming from the lake, but was a reflection.
Behind him, a wide shaft of light was shining toward the heavens. The dome was opening. The airship was rising slowly into the air. When it was a few hundred feet over the trees, the airship headed to- ward the lake. Bathed in the eerie light from below, the airship looked like an avenging monster out of some time-shrouded myth. Instead of approaching on a straight line, the airship turned sharply and moved along the shore. Beams of light shot out from its under- belly and probed the surface of the lake.
After making its first pass, the airship turned onto a parallel track. Rather than make a random thrust into the space over the lake, the airship was conducting a thorough search, using a lawn-mowing pat- tern. Nighthawk was paddling for all he was worth, but it would be only a matter of minutes before the searchlights dancing over the lake's surface caught the canoe.
The airship made another turn and started back on a course that would take it directly over the canoe. Once spotted, the canoe would be an easy target. Nighthawk knew there was only one option avail- able to him. He drew his hunting knife and slashed a hole in the bot- tom of the canoe. Cold water poured in and surged around his waist. The water was up to his neck, as the airship blotted out the sky al- most directly overhead. The guttural noise of its engines blocked out all other sound.
Nighthawk ducked his head and held on to the sinking canoe to keep it below the surface. Above him, the water glowed white from the moving bull's-eyes, then went black again. He stayed under as long as he could, then, gasping for breath, he popped his head out of the water.
The airship had turned for another pass. Nighthawk could hear another sound mingling with the throb of engines. The whine and snarl of Jet Skis. Someone must have had spare ignition keys. Nighthawk swam off at an angle, away from the village.
Minutes later, he saw lights scudding across the lake at great speed as the Jet Skis made directly for the deserted village. Nighthawk kept swimming until he felt soft muck under his feet. He crawled up onto the shore, exhausted from the swim, but he rested only long enough to wring water out of his shirt.
Lights were coming his way along the beach.
Nighthawk took one last, sorrowful look across the lake, before he melted into the woods like a sodden wraith.
20
ABROAD SMILE CROSSED Austin's bronzed face as the taxi crunched onto the long gravel driveway in Fairfax, Virginia. Austin paid his fare from Duties Airport and sprinted up the steps of the Victorian boathouse, part of an old estate fronting on the Potomac River. He dropped his bags inside the door, swept his eye around the combination study-den and the familiar line from Robert Louis Stevenson came to mind.
Home is the sailor, home from sea.
Like Austin himself, his house was a study in contrasts. He was a man of action whose physical strength, courage and quickness made him a force to be reckoned with. Yet he possessed a cool intellect, and he often drew inspiration from the great minds of centuries past. His work often involved the latest in high-tech gadgets, but his respect for the past was crystallized in the brace of dueling pistols that hung over his fireplace. It was part of a collection of more than two hun- dred sets, to which he was always adding, despite the limitations of a government salary.
The dichotomy in his personality was reflected in the comfortable dark-wood Colonial furniture that contrasted with the plain white walls, like those in a New York art gallery, that were hung with con- temporary originals. His extensive bookshelves groaned under the weight of hundreds of books that included first editions of Joseph Conrad and Herman Melville, and well-worn volumes containing the writings of the great philosophers. While he could spend hours studying the works and wisdom of Plato and Kant, his extensive music library was heavy on progressive jazz. Curiously, there was lit- tle to indicate that he spent most of his working days on or under the sea, except for a primitive painting of a clipper ship and a few other sailing vessels, a photo of his catboat under full sail and a glass- encased model of his racing hydroplane.
Austin had lovingly converted the boathouse into a residence, doing much of the work himself. His assignments for NUMA, and before that for the CIA, took him all over the globe. But when his work was done, he could always return to his safe harbor, drop sail and throw the anchor over the side. All that was needed to make the nautical analogy complete, he reflected, was a ration of grog.
He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of dark rum and Jamaican ginger beer. The ice tinkled pleasantly in his glass as he threw the doors open to release the musty smell. He went out onto the deck, where he filled his lungs with the fresh river air and surveyed the slow-moving Potomac in the vanishing light. Nothing had changed. The river was as beautiful and serene as ever.
He stretched out in a wood-slatted Adirondack chair, lay back and stared at the sky as if the stars could tell him what was behind the events of the last few days. His misadventures in the Faroe Islands and in Copenhagen would have been the stuff of dreams if not for the itch on his chest where the knife wound was healing and the ten- der swelling under his hair where a club had connected with his nog- mn. He could draw a straight line from the sabotage of the SOS ship to the attack on a quiet Copenhagen street. The dark impulses that had inspired the sabotage of the SOS ship were obviously a means to an end. Simply put, someone wanted SOS out of the picture. When Austin had gotten nosey, he'd become a target, first in Skaalshavn and later in Copenhagen.
The situation could be summed up in a simple equation: When- ever someone got too close to a company called Oceanus, the results could be disastrous. His thoughts drifted back to the Faroe Islands fish farm and the thing in the fish tank that had scared the hell out of him. A miasma of pure evil seemed to hang over the Oceanus op- eration. What had Jorgensen said? Unholy. Then there was the Basque tycoon, Balthazar Aguirrez, and his Quixotic quest. What was that all about?
Austin went over the events of the past several days in his mind until he felt his eyelids drooping. He downed the last of his drink, climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the turret surmounting the mansard roof, and turned in. He slept soundly and was up and dressed early t
he next morning, refreshed by a night's sleep and stim- ulated by a pot of strong Kona coffee. He telephoned an old friend at the CIA to make sure he would be in, then called his NUMA of- fice to say he'd be late.
Unlike his colleague Dirk Pitt, who collected antique autos and relished driving them, Austin was indifferent when it came to ground transportation. Driving a sedan from the NUMA car pool, nondescript except for its turquoise color, he headed to Langley, along a route he knew well from his days with the CIA, and parked his car next to dozens of other government vehicles. Security at the sprawl- ing complex was tighter since 9/11.
Herinan Perez, whom he had called earlier, was waiting in the vis- itors' area. Perez was a slightly built man with an olive complexion and dark-brown eyes that matched his thinning hair. Perez helped speed the check-in process through security and led Austin through the labyrinth of corridors to an office uncluttered by a scrap of paper. The only objects on the desktop were a computer monitor, a tele- phone and a photo of an attractive woman and two cute children.
"Kurt, it's great to see you!" Perez said, motioning for Austin to sit down. "Thinking of jumping Sandecker's ship to come back into the Company? We'd love to have you. The cloak-and-dagger stuff you're so good at has become respectable at Langley once again."
"Admiral Sandecker might have something to say about that. But I'll have to admit that I still get misty-eyed when I think about the fun we had on our last job."
"The secret missile retrieval job we did off Gibraltar," Perez said with a boyish grin. "Oh boy, that was something."
"I was thinking about that on the drive over this morning. How long has it been?"
"Too damned long. You know something, Kurt, I still hear little flamenco dancers in my head whenever I drink Spanish wine." A dreamy look came into Perez's face. "By God, we had some good times, didn't we?"
Austin nodded in agreement. "The world has changed a lot since then."
Perez laughed in reply. "Not for you, old pal! Hell, I read about that amazing rescue you pulled off in the Faroe Islands. You haven't changed a bit, you old sea dog. Still the same swashbuckling Austin."
Austin groaned. "These days, for every minute swashing buckles, I spend an hour at my desk dealing with reports."
"I hear you! I could do without the paperwork, although I've got- ten to like my nine-to-five schedule since I became a father. Two kids, would you believe it? Being a desk jockey isn't all bad. You might want to try it."
"No, thanks. I'd rather have my eyeballs tattooed."
Perez laughed. "Well, you didn't come here to talk about the good ol' days. You said on the phone that you were looking for background info on Balthazar Aguirrez. What's your interest in him, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Not at all. I ran into Aguirrez in the Faroe Islands. He seemed like a fascinating character. I know he's a shipbuilding magnate, but I suspected there was more to him than meets the eye."
"You met him?"
"He was fishing. So was I."
"I should have known," Perez said. "Trouble attracts trouble."
"Why is he trouble?"
"What do you know about the Basque separatist movement?"
"It's been around a long time. Every so often, Basque terrorists blow up a public building or assassinate an innocent government of- ficial."
"That pretty much sums it up," Perez said. "There's been talk for decades of a separate Basque state that would straddle Spain and France. The most radical separatist group, ETA, started fighting for an autonomous Basque state in 1968. When Franco died in 1975, the new Spanish government gave the Basques more political power, but the ETA wants the whole enchilada. They've killed more than eight hundred people since taking up the cause. Anyone who is not on their side is an enemy."
"A familiar story around the world, unfortunately."
"The political wing of the separatist movement is the Batasuna party. Some people have compared it to Sinn Fein, the public face of the IRA. The Spanish government threw up its hands after more as- sassinations and the discovery of a big ETA weapons cache. Auton- omy wasn't working, so they banned Batasuna and started to crack down on the whole separatist movement."
"Where does Aguirrez fit in to this bloody little picture?"
"Your instincts were right about there being more to him than meets the eye. He has been a major backer of Batasuna. The gov- ernment has accused him of financing terrorism."
"I liked him. He didn't look like a terrorist," Austin said, recall- ing his benefactor's bluff and down-to-earth manners.
"Sure, and Joe Stalin looked like somebody's grandfather."
Austin remembered the yacht's tough-looking crew and the heavy- duty armament that the vessel carried. "So, are the charges true?"
"He freely admits to supporting Batasuna, but points out that it was a legitimate party when he gave them money. The government suspects he's still channeling money into the movement. They have no proof, and Aguirrez is too well-connected to bring into court with flimsy evidence."
"What's your take on the guy?"
"In all my years in Spain, I never met him, which was why I was surprised when you said you had. I think he's a moderate who'd like to see a peaceful separatist solution, but the ETA murders have un- dermined his cause. He's afraid the crackdown will rekindle the con- flict and endanger innocent citizens. He may be right."
"Sounds like he's walking a very thin tightrope."
"Some people say that the pressure's made him unhinged. He's been talking about a way to rally European public opinion in favor of a Basque nation. Did he give you any hint of what's on his mind ?" Perez narrowed his dark eyes. "Surely you didn't talk just about fishing."
"He struck me as very proud of his Basque heritage-his yacht is named the Nat/arm. He didn't say a word about politics. We talked mostly about archaeology. He's an amateur archaeologist with strong interest in his own ancestors."
"You make him sound like a contender for the nutty professor. Let
me give you a warning, old friend. The Spanish police would love to nail him to the wall. They have no direct proof linking him to ter- rorist acts, but when they do, you don't want to be in their way."
"I'll remember that. Thanks for the heads-up."
"Hell, Kurt, it's the least I could do for a former comrade-in- arms."
Before Perez had the chance to start reminiscing again, Austin glanced at his watch. "Got to get moving. Thanks for your time."
"Not at all. Let's get together for lunch sometime. We miss you here. The brass is still ticked off about Sandecker grabbing you for NUMA."
Austin rose from his chair. "Maybe we'll work on a joint opera- tion someday."
Perez smiled. "I'd like that," he said.
The Washington traffic had let up, and before long, Austin saw the sun gleaming on the green glass facade of the thirty-story NUMA building overlooking the Potomac. He groaned when he walked into his office. His efficient secretary had neatly piled the pink call-back slips in the center of his desk. In addition, he would have to dig him- self out of an avalanche of e-mail messages before he got down to preparing a report on Oceanus.
Ah, the exciting life of a swashbuckler! He scrolled through his e- mail, deleted half of it as nonessential and shuffled through his pink slips. There was a message from Paul and Gamay. They had gone to Canada to check into an Oceanus operation. Zavala had left a call on his answering machine saying he would be home that night in time for a hot date. Some things never change, Austin thought with a shake of his head. His handsome and charming partner was much in demand among Washington's female set. Austin sighed and began to tap away at his computer. He was wrapping up the first draft when the phone rang.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Austin. I was hoping I'd find you in your office."
Austin smiled at the sound of Them's voice. "I'm already pining for the high seas. Your flight home on the Concorde went well, I trust.
"Yes, but I don't know why I hurried back. My in-box is filled with depositions
and briefs. But I didn't call to complain. I'd like to get to- gether with you."
"I'm halfway out the door. A walk maybe. Cocktails and dinner. Then, who knows?"
"We'll have to put the 'who knows?' on hold for now. This is busi- ness. Marcus wants to talk to you."
"I'm really starting to dislike your friend. He keeps getting in the way of what may be the love affair of the century."
"This is important, Kurt."
"Okay, I'll meet with him, with one condition. We make a date for tonight."
"It's a deal."
She gave Austin a time and place for the meeting. Them's charm notwithstanding, he had agreed to talk to Ryan because he had come to a dead end and thought he might learn something new. He hung up, leaned back in his swivel chair and laced his fingers behind his head. It was easy to bring his thoughts around to Oceanus. His chest ached when he raised his arm, and the pain made an effective mem- ory aid.
He wondered if the Trouts had turned up anything. They hadn't called since leaving their message. He tried to reach them on their cell phone and got no answer. He didn't worry. Paul and Gamay were fully capable of taking care of themselves. Next, he called Rudi Gunn, NUMA's assistant director, and set up a luncheon meeting. Rudi's famed analytical skills might help guide him through the dense thicket surrounding the mysterious corporation.
Gunn was bound to home in on Aguirrez when he read the report, questioning whether there was any link between Basque terrorism and Oceanus violence. Aguirrez had mentioned his ancestor, Diego. Austin pondered the Basque's obsession with his forebear and thought that Aguirrez might be on to something. From his own ex- perience, Austin knew that the past is always the key to the present. He needed someone who could guide him back five centuries. One person came to mind immediately. Austin picked up the phone and punched out a number.
21
THE WORLD-FAMOUS marine historian and gourmand, St. Julien Perlmutter, was in an agony of ecstasy. He sat outside a three-hundred-year-old Tuscan villa whose shaded terrace had a breathtaking view of rolling vineyards. Visible in the distance, dom- inating the Renaissance city of Florence, was the Duomo. The wide oak table before him groaned with Italian cuisine, from pungent sausage made locally, to a thick, rare beefsteak Florentine. There was so much wonderful food, and so many wonderful colors and fragrances, in fact, that he was having a hard time trying to decide where to start.
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