Lost Empire

by Cussler, Clive;Grant Blackwood

  “We go now,” Tolotra announced.

  Again the group fell into formation with Sam and Remi in the middle. Using their peripheral vision, Sam and Remi kept watch for the Kid, but there was no sign of him. Whatever the old truffle hunter had planned, they would have to be ready to react and improvise.

  THEY DREW EVEN WITH the Chevy pickup truck and stopped. Sam and Remi’s packs were tossed into the bed.

  Sam whispered to Remi, “Stay sharp.”

  Tolotra and four of the others clustered around the tailgate and began conversing. The sixth man stood ten feet behind Sam and Remi, his rifle trained on their lower backs. Based on Tolotra’s gestures, Sam assumed they were trying to decide how best to execute the drive into Antananarivo—essentially, the enemy’s capital.

  Remi was the first to realize the Kid’s plan was unfolding. With her eyes, she guided Sam’s gaze over the roof of the Chevy and up the middle Wise Man to the top. At first Sam saw nothing, and then, almost imperceptibly, a barrel-sized boulder began inching toward the edge.

  Sam whispered, “When I move, go for the Range Rover.”

  Tolotra turned and glared at Sam. Sam shrugged and smiled apologetically.

  Remi whispered, “Okay.”

  Atop the Wise Man, the boulder had reached the edge, where it stopped. Sam and Remi took a deep breath. Waited. The boulder wiggled forward, paused momentarily, then tipped over the edge and started falling. The pillar’s face was a slope, angled slightly backward, and smooth save some bumps near the bottom. The combination of the face, gravity, and the boulder’s kinetic friction kept it adhered to the face. The engineer in Sam knew that would end as soon as the boulder hit its first bump, at which point the boulder would become a stone artillery shell.

  Knowing no Malagasy, Sam did what he hoped would cause the most panic: He let out a distinctly un-macho, high-pitched scream, pointed at the boulder, and shouted, “Boulder!”

  In unison, Tolotra and his men glanced up. Lacking the advantage of the foreknowledge Sam and Remi had, everyone froze and stared in awe. Sam, having kept his eye on Tolotra for most of the hike and having rehearsed his actions, took two leaping steps forward, heel-kicked Tolotra in the back of the knee, and, as he fell, jerked the Webley-Fosbury from his waistband.

  Behind him, Remi’s guard screamed something that Sam assumed was “Stop!,” which he further assumed would be followed by the guard drawing a bead on the fleeing Remi. Sam never gave him the chance. With the Webley now free, Sam latched his left hand onto Tolotra’s collar and pistol-whipped him in the side of the head. Tolotra grunted and went limp.

  Sam spun on one heel and dropped to his knees, putting Tolotra between him and four other men, two of whom were backing across the road, the other two scrambling around to the Chevy’s opposite side. Sam’s spin naturally brought the Webley around to point in the general direction of Remi’s guard. As Sam had feared, the man was jerking the rifle up to his shoulder, the barrel tracking Remi as she sprinted toward the Range Rover.

  Sam fired once, hitting the man on the sternum. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the man dropped straight down, dead. Sam wrapped his left forearm around Tolotra’s throat, pulled him tighter, then shifted his aim toward the two rebels backing across the road. Both had their rifles trained on Sam, obviously trying to decide whether to risk the shot. Sam shifted the Webley’s sights from one man to the next. On the other side of the truck, he could hear the other two men moving through the high grass along the shoulder.

  Boom. The ground shuddered, followed by the snapping of limbs. Another shudder, like a giant was on the march. Sam felt it in his belly.

  Remi shouted, “Boulder’s bouncing!”

  “Where!”

  “Coming your way!”

  Boom. Closer this time.

  On the other side of the truck the two rebels shouted.

  “They’re running!” Remi called.

  The two in front of Sam did the same, turning and sprinting back down the road.

  Boom.

  “Hold tight, Sam! It’s almost on you! Three . . . two . . . one . . .” Sam curled into a ball. Above his head there came the wrenching of steel. Glass shattered. He felt the Chevy lurch to the side, shoving him and Tolotra over the gravel. A shadow passed overhead. Boom. The boulder struck the far side of the road, bounced once, then disappeared over the shoulder, bulldozing trees as it went. After another ten seconds the sound stopped. Sam looked up, glanced around.

  Down the road, the four remaining rebels had stopped running. After a brief huddled conference, they started back toward Sam and Remi. Sam, having watched Tolotra pocket the Rover’s keys, dug them out.

  “Remi, better start the Rover,” he called.

  He tossed the keys up the road, then pointed the Webley down the road and took aim on the four advancing rebels.

  One of them stumbled sideways, clutched his thigh, and crumbled to the road, followed a split second later by a basso pop. Though Sam had never heard that particular sound, he surmised it was the report of a .455 caliber bullet from a circa 1915 Webley Model Mark VI revolver.

  The remaining three rebels stopped, whirled toward the Wise Men.

  A second bullet struck, this one between the legs of the center man. He backed up a few steps, followed by the second man. The third man, however, was a slow learner. Half crouching, his eyes scanning the high ground, he slowly brought his rifle to his shoulder. He got a bullet in the left kneecap for his trouble. He screamed and toppled over.

  From the direction of the Wise Men, a disembodied voice shouted something. The two still-armed rebels dropped their guns. Another shout. The able-bodied men helped their comrades to their feet, and the group began limping off down the road.

  Sam shoved the unconscious Tolotra off him and climbed to his feet. Remi walked up. Together, they stared at what remained of the Chevy. Aside from the four twisted stumps that formed the cab, the pickup had been decapitated.

  A voice called, “Looking at it, you’d think that’s exactly what I had planned.”

  A figure emerged from the trees at the base of the Wise Men and began striding toward them.

  “Didn’t you?” Sam asked the Kid.

  “I’ll never tell.”

  Remi said, “You certainly know how to create a distraction.” The Kid stopped before them. “It was all Mother Nature, my dear. And the luck of the bounce, of course.”

  “Thanks for not deserting us,” said Sam.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Sam hefted the Webley-Fosbury in his hand, appraised the weapon for a moment, then handed it to the Kid, who frowned and shook his head. “She’s yours now.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Until today, she’d never been fired. It’s a tradition, you see . . . Chinese, if I recall.”

  Remi smiled. “I think you’re thinking of, ‘Save a life and you’re responsible for it.’”

  The Kid shrugged. “Either way, Mr. Fargo, she’s yours now.”

  “Thanks. I’ll treasure it. What should we do with these two?” Sam asked, pointing to Tolotra and the dead man on the road.

  “Leave them. The sooner you get to Antananarivo, the better.” The Kid read Sam and Remi’s somber expressions. “Don’t give it a second thought. They would’ve killed you.”

  “How do you know that for sure?” Remi said.

  “In the last five years, there’ve been sixty-three kidnappings here. Ransom paid or unpaid, not one came back alive. Trust me, it was you or them.”

  Sam and Remi considered this, then nodded. Sam shook the Kid’s hand, then grabbed their packs from the truck’s bed as Remi gave their savior a hug. They turned and headed toward the Range Rover.

  “One more thing,” the Kid called.

  Sam and Remi turned back. The Kid dug into his pack and came out with a small burlap bag. He handed it to them. “Truffles for your troubles,” the Kid said. Then he crossed the road and disappeared into the brush.

  Sam turned the bur
lap bag over in his hands. Stamped on the side in red ink was a logo—the letter C, and beside it, in smaller letters, ussler Truffles.

  Remi said, “That’s nice of him. But what’s an ‘ussler’?”

  CHAPTER 34

  MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN

  THEY WERE ALMOST HALFWAY BACK TO ANTANANARIVO AND approaching a village named Moramanga at the junction of Routes 2 and 44 when their satellite phone trilled. In the passenger seat, Remi answered. “It’s Rube,” she said after a moment, then put it on speakerphone.

  “Hi, Rube,” Sam called.

  “Where are you?”

  “Madagascar.”

  “Damn. I was afraid of that.”

  Remi said, “Something tells me it’s not just a general dislike of Madagascar that’s got you bothered.”

  “Someone flagged your passports at the Antananarivo airport.”

  “When?” asked Remi.

  “A couple days before you arrived.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Sam asked. “We weren’t stopped when we went through immigration.”

  “That’s what’s got me worried. If it was a government-level request, you would have been stopped there. In spookspeak, the flag you got is called a ‘note-and-notify.’ Somebody just wanted to know when you got there.”

  “And it doesn’t have to be someone in the government,” Sam said.

  “In Third World countries, where the average annual income is a few hundred dollars, you can buy a note-and-notify for the price of a cup of coffee. And since Rivera’s already shown he’s got connections in Africa . . .”

  “Understood,” Sam replied. “Recommendations?”

  “Assume somebody’s actively looking for you; assume they’ll find you. Don’t go back to Antananarivo. Have Selma track down a private airstrip and a pilot who doesn’t mind working for cash and won’t bother with passports.”

  Such was the downside of being who they were. While far from famous, Sam and Remi had something of a reputation in the adventurer/ treasure-hunting community, and while naturally they had a few detractors, they were widely respected. Getting caught sneaking into and out of countries on false passports could potentially cause more trouble than it was worth: jail, expulsion, headlines, being labeled persona non grata, and, perhaps most important, the evaporation of invaluable contacts in the academic world. By playing it mostly aboveboard, Sam and Remi were often easy targets for anyone willing and able to bribe the right person in the right place.

  Remi said, “We know about the political situation. How does that affect things?”

  “Badly. Stay near civilization and know where the police stations are.”

  “That could be a problem. We’re a little off the beaten path right now.”

  “Why am I not surprised? Okay, give me a second.” The line went silent for two minutes, then Rube returned. “Best guess puts the rebels about a week away from being ready for a major attack, but that doesn’t rule out skirmishes. Most of the cities within fifty miles of Antananarivo should be okay. The bigger, the better. Head south if possible. The rebels are clustered in the north. The downside is—”

  “Rivera and his goons will be thinking the same thing and looking in those places,” Sam finished.

  “Right. Wish I could be of more help.”

  “Rube, you’re the best. Don’t ever doubt it. We’ll call when we’re safe.”

  THEIR NEXT CALL went to Selma, who listened, asked a few questions, and said, “I’m on it,” then hung up.

  Now Remi studied the map as Sam drove.

  “We’ve got two options,” she said after a few minutes. “One, take one of the dozens of roads—and I use that term very loosely—that head generally south, or close to within a couple miles of Antananarivo. There’s a two-lane blacktop that circles the city to the east and then links up with Route 7 heading south.”

  “How do the unnamed roads look?”

  “As you’d expect: dirt and gravel, at best.”

  “Multiple choices make for a harder trail to follow,” Sam observed.

  “And if we’re aiming for Route 7, it’ll add five or six hours onto our travel time. Which takes us well past nightfall.”

  “My vote is blacktop,” Sam said.

  “Seconded.”

  “Different subject . . . The fact that Rivera flagged our passports here, of all places, means something.”

  Remi was nodding. “It’s not hard to guess what that is. They knew there was something here to find. But is it the outrigger we found or something more?”

  “We’ll know that when we know what got them interested in Madagascar in the first place. My guess: They’ve been here before and didn’t find what they were looking for.”

  “Which begs the question: Where else have they been?”

  THE AFTERNOON WORE ON. Past Moramanga, moving ever westward and upward, they passed mile after mile of rice paddies and drove through village after village, each one bearing a quaint name that Remi described as “part Malagasy, part French, with a dash of Italian”: Andranokobaka, Ambodigavo, Ambatonifody. . . .

  Ten miles east of Anosibe Ifody the terrain began to change yet again, giving way to tropical forest interspersed with rugged brown hills that reminded Sam and Remi of Tuscany. Jagged escarpments, glowing brownish gold in the sun, rose above the treetops to the north and south. Shortly after three o’clock they stopped at a Jovenna gas station on the outskirts of Manjakandriana. Remi went inside for snacks and water while Sam pumped the gas.

  Down the block, a white Volkswagen Passat police vehicle came around the corner and headed toward the gas station. Moving at a sedate twenty miles per hour, the Passat slowed as it drew even with the Range Rover. After a few more seconds the Passat sped up and continued down the block, where it pulled to the side of the road and parked. Through the rear window Sam saw the driver pluck something off the dashboard and bring it to his mouth.

  Remi came out with four bottles of water and a few bags of pretzels. Sam got back in the driver’s seat.

  “You’re wearing your frowny face,” Remi observed.

  “It may be exhaustion or paranoia, or a combination of the two, but I think that police car is interested in us.”

  “Where?”

  “Down the block, under the awning with the old Coca-Cola sign.”

  Remi checked the side mirror. “I see him.”

  “He slowed beside us, then parked and got on the radio.”

  Sam started the engine. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “What exactly are we doing?” Remi asked.

  “Giving him a chance.”

  Remi caught on: “If it’s official business, he’ll stop us here. If not . . . ‘note-and-notify.’”

  “Right.” Sam put the Rover in gear. “Time to play navigator again, Remi. We’re backtracking.”

  “To where?”

  “Hopefully, nowhere. If he doesn’t follow us, we’ll turn around again.”

  “And if he follows us?”

  “Then we’re on the run. We’ll be needing one of those unnamed roads you mentioned.”

  “WE’RE ON THE RUN,” Remi announced a few minutes later. Facing backward, she’d been staring through the rear window since they’d left Manjakandriana. “He’s a mile back.”

  “We’ve got some dips and turns coming up. Let me know each time you lose sight of him.”

  “Why?”

  “If we sprint while he’s watching us he’ll know we’re running; this way we may be able to get some distance before he realizes it.”

  “Tricky, Fargo.”

  “Only if it works.”

  “What if he tries to stop us?”

  “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES Sam followed Remi’s cues, flooring the gas pedal for a ten count when Remi said, “Go!,” before slowing back down to the speed limit. Slowly but steadily, they put an extra half mile between them and the Passat.

  “Are any of th
ose roads not gravel or dirt?” Sam asked.

  Remi studied the map. “Hard to tell, but this one coming up looks a tad thicker than the others. So far on this map, that’s usually meant blacktop of some kind. Why do you ask?”

  “No dust trail.”

  “From a quick turn,” Remi said. “That could work both ways.”

  Sam frowned. “Good point. Tell me when the turn’s coming up.”

  For the next few minutes Remi matched passing roads and signs against the map’s markings. “Should be the next turn to the south.” She measured the distance with her fingernail. “A quarter mile, give or take. Should be just over this hill.”

  “How’s our friend?”

  “Hard to be sure, but it looks like he’s picked up speed.”

  They crested the hill and started down. Ahead, Sam saw the turnoff Remi had indicated. Sam jammed the accelerator to the floorboard, and the Range Rover surged forward. Her eyes wide, Remi braced herself against the dashboard. A hundred yards from the turn, Sam switched his foot to the brake, pressing as hard as he dared without skidding, and brought the Rover down to sixty-five kilometers per hour, or forty miles per hour.

  “Hang on,” Sam said, then slewed the wheel right. Despite the Rover’s high center of gravity, the tires clung to the road, but Sam could see he’d overshot the turn. He eased the wheel left, then tapped the brakes and jerked the wheel right again. The Rover’s tail whipped around. The driver’s-side rear tire slipped off the shoulder. They felt the Rover tipping sideways. Sam resisted the impulse to correct right and instead steered into the skid, dropping the driver’s-side front tire off the shoulder. Now even with each other, the two shoulder-side tires bit down together. Sam gunned it, jerked the wheel to the right, and the Rover vaulted back onto the road.