Lost City nf-5 Read online

  "The tunnels are color-coded," he explained to Zavala. "The blinking blue lines show the tunnels that are wet and the red lines indicate the dry water conduits." He tapped a red line. "Here's the tunnel we used in the rescue."

  Zavala leaned over Austin's shoulder and with his finger traced a convoluted route from the observatory access tunnel back to the

  power plant. "Quite the maze. We'll have to double back a few times and make a couple of jogs."

  "Think of it as a cross between a fun house and a water park," Austin said. "We should come out where our pal Sebastian blew off the sluice gate. From there it's a short walk to the observatory. Now for the bad news. We've probably got ten to fifteen miles of tunnels to navigate."

  "It could take hours, longer if we get lost."

  "Not necessarily," Austin said, recalling something Lessard had said about Dr. LeBlanc.

  He ran off a printout of the computer display and cast a sad glance at Lessard's body, and then he and Zavala left the control room. Moments later, they were on the observation platform where Lessard had shown Austin the power of the glacier's melt water. The torrent that had reminded Austin of the Colorado River rapids had become a narrow stream a few yards wide and a foot deep.

  Satisfied that the tunnel had been drained, he and Zavala went back through the lobby and out the front door of the plant. They walked a couple of hundred yards from the plant's entrance to a sheet-metal garage butted up against the mountain wall. The garage housed two vehicles, the utility truck that had picked Austin up on his first visit to the power plant, and, under a plastic cover, Dr. LeBlanc's beloved Citroen 2C.

  Austin removed the cloth. "Meet Fifi," he said.

  "Fifi?"

  "It belongs to one of the glacier scientists. He has a thing for her."

  "I've seen prettier women," Zavala said, "but I've always said that it's personality that counts."

  With its humped back and sloping hood, the tough little Citroen 2C was one of the most distinctive cars ever produced. The auto's designer had said he wanted "four wheels under an umbrella," a car that could cross a plowed field without breaking eggs carried in a basket. Fifi had seen some hard miles. Her half-moon rear wheel covers were dented, and the faded red paint almost pink and pitted by sand and gravel. Yet she had the jaunty air of a woman who was never beautiful but infinitely sure of her ability to cope with life.

  The key was in the ignition. They got in the car and started the engine with no problem. Then he and Zavala drove along a gravel road that followed the base of the mountain wall until they came to a set of high double doors. Austin consulted the map and saw that they were at the site marked Porte de Sillon. He wasn't sure of the correct translation, but he reasoned that the huge drilling machines that bored out the tunnels must have had a way to get in and out of the mountain.

  The doors were made of heavy steel, but they were well balanced and opened easily. Austin drove Fifi through the opening into the tunnel, where the whine of her tiny engine echoed off the walls and ceilings. The tunnel went straight into the mountain past the turbine room and entered the main system. They would have been lost in the maze of intersecting tunnels if not for the map. Zavala did yeoman service as a navigator, despite Austin's heavy foot and his quick turns. Fifteen minutes after they had entered the tunnels, Zavala told Austin to take a left at the next intersection.

  "We're almost at the observatory tunnel," he said.

  "How far?"

  "About a half of a mile."

  "I think we'd better leave Fifi and walk from here."

  Like the rest of the system, the tunnel had a string of lights running along the ceiling. Many of the bulbs had burned out and not been replaced. The sporadic lighting intensified the blackness of the unlit sections between the pale circles of light. As the two men trudged along, the dripping orange walls gave off a damp raw cold that numbed their faces and the chill tried to sneak in around the collars of the down jackets they had found in the crew quarters.

  "They told me that when I joined NUMA I would go places," Zavala said. "But I didn't know I'd have to walk there."

  "Think of it as a character-building experience," Austin said cheerfully.

  After a few more minutes of character building, they came to a ladder that ran up the side of a wall to a catwalk. A section of the walkway was enclosed by plastic and glass. Austin remembered Lessard mentioning satellite control rooms scattered throughout the tunnel system. They kept on walking and had just turned into a new tunnel when Austin's keen ear picked up a sound that was loud enough to drown out the ongoing chorus of gurgles and drips.

  "What's that?" he said, cupping his hand to his ear.

  Zavala listened for a moment. "Sounds like a locomotive."

  Austin shook his head. "That's no ghost train. Run!"

  Zavala was transfixed. He stood in place, as rigid as a statue, until Austin's voice pulled him out of his trance. Then he took off like a sprinter at the starting gun, keeping a step behind Austin. They splashed through puddles, ignoring the spray that soaked their clothes from the waist down.

  The rushing grew louder and became a roar. Austin made a quick right-angle turn into another tunnel. Zavala tried to follow, but skidded on the wet floor. Austin saw Zavala fall. He went back and pulled his friend up by the wrist and they were off again, running from the unseen menace. The floor seemed to vibrate under their pounding feet as the noise reached a mind-numbing level.

  Austin's frantic eyes saw the metal ladder that ran up the wall to the catwalk. He grabbed onto the first rung and pulled himself up like a circus acrobat. Zavala had hurt his knee in his fall and was having trouble climbing with his usual agility. Austin reached down and pulled his partner onto the catwalk and they dove into the control booth.

  Just in time.

  A second after they had slammed the watertight door shut, a huge blue wave cascaded through the tunnel. The catwalk disappeared under the rushing, foaming water that battered the windows like seas slamming into a ship in a storm. The catwalk shook from the impact, and for a moment Austin feared that the whole structure, control booth and all, would be washed away.

  After the first shock, the torrent moderated, but the height of the river still reached the bottom of the catwalk. Austin went over to the control panel and stared at the diagram. He was worried that a sluice gate had given way, allowing the full force of the glacial melt water to pour through the tunnel. If that were the case, they would be stuck in the control room until they died or the glacier melted entirely.

  The tunnel line was still red, indicating that it was dry. He saw this as a ray of hope because it meant that the flow of water came from a pocket of water and might have a beginning and an end.

  It turned out to be a very large pocket. Five minutes that seemed like five years went by before the flow of water began to abate. Once the water level started to drop, it did so with great rapidity until they were able to go out onto the catwalk without danger of being washed off.

  Zavala watched the still-formidable torrent and yelled over the sound, "I thought you said this would be like a fun house. Some fun. Some house."

  "I think I said something about a water park, too."

  It took another ten minutes for the water flow to diminish to a point where it was safe to descend the ladder. Austin considered the possibility of other pockets bursting open, but put the thought out of his mind and led the way through the maze of tunnels. On one occasion, a tunnel that was supposed to be dry proved to be otherwise. They would have become dangerously wet instead of uncomfortably damp if they had tried to ford the stream, and chose to detour around it.

  According to the map, they were within minutes of the access tunnel to the glacial observatory. Eventually, they came to a massive steel door that was similar to the sluice gates they had seen in other tunnels. This one was different from the others they had encountered. The thick steel was peeled back like the skin of an orange.

  Zavala went over and gingerly touched
the twisted steel. "This must be the door that Fauchard's goon blew off its hinges."

  Austin borrowed the map and pointed to a tunnel line. "We're here," he said. "We go through the door and take a right and the observatory is about a half a mile walk. We'd better stay alert and keep the noise down."

  "I'll do my best to keep my teeth from chattering, but it won't be easy."

  Their lighthearted bantering was deceptive. Both men were well aware of the potential danger they faced, and their concern was evident in the care they used to check their firearms. As they entered the main tunnel, Austin gave Zavala a whispered description of the lab setup. He told him about the lab buildings, then the staircase leading to the observatory tunnel and the ice chamber where Jules Fauchard was entombed.

  They were nearing the lab trailers when Zavala started limping again. His injured knee was giving him trouble. He told Austin to go ahead, and he'd catch up in a minute. Austin thought about checking out the trailers, but the windows were dark and he assumed that Emil and his men were in the observatory itself. He learned that he was wrong when a door swung quietly open behind him and a man's voice told him in French to get his hands in the air. Then he was ordered to turn around, slowly.

  In the murky light, Austin could make out a hulking figure. Although the tunnel was dim, stray shafts of light reflected off the gun pointed in his direction.

  "Hello," Sebastian said in a pleasant voice. "Master Emil has been waiting for you."

  THE ROADSIDE BISTRO was like a desert watering hole to the Trouts, who had been on the go for most of the day. They beat a path to the door of the converted farmhouse and were soon seated in a dining room that overlooked a formal flower garden. Although the stop was motivated by hunger and thirst, it proved to be a stroke of luck. Not only was the food excellent, the bistro's handsome young owner was the equivalent of a chamber of commerce information booth.

  He overheard Paul and Gamay speaking English and he came over to their table to introduce himself. His name was Bertrand, "Bert" for short, and he had been a chef in New York City for a few years before returning to France to open his own place. He was pleased at the chance to talk American English and they answered his queries about the States with good-natured patience. As a Jets fan, he was particularly interested in football. As a Frenchman, he was intrigued as well by Gamay and her unusual name.

  "C'est belle," he said. "C'est tres belle."

  "My father's idea," she explained. "He was a wine connoisseur, and the color of my hair reminded him of the grape of Beaujolais."

  Bert's appreciative eyes took in Camay's long swept-up coif and her flashing smile. "Your father was a lucky man to have such a lovely daughter. And you, Monsieur Trout, are fortunate to have a beautiful wife."

  "Thank you," Paul said, putting his arm around Gamay's shoulder in an unmistakable male gesture that said, You can look but don't touch.

  Bert smiled in understanding as the subtle message sunk in and again became the professional host. "Are you here on business or for pleasure?"

  "A bit of both," Gamay replied.

  "We own a small chain of wine shops in the Washington area," Paul explained, using the cover story he and Gamay had cooked up. He handed Bert one of the business cards he and Gamay had hastily printed up at an airport copy shop during they- Paris stopover. "As we travel about, we like to keep an eye out for small vineyards that might be able to offer something special for our discerning customers."

  Bert clapped his hands as if in light applause. "You and your wife have come to the right place, Monsieur Trout. The wine you're drinking is from an estate not far from here. I can get you an introduction to the owner."

  Gamay took a sip from her glass. "A robust red. Precocious and lively. It has high notes of raspberry."

  "There's a hint of mischievousness to it that I like," Paul said. "Combined with low notes of pepper."

  Both Trouts tended toward microbrewery beer, and their knowledge of wine was gleaned mostly from the labels, but Bert nodded sagely. "You are true wine aficionados."

  "Thank you," Gamay said. "Do you have any other vineyard suggestions?"

  "Oui, Madame Trout. Many." Bert jotted down several names on a napkin, which Paul tucked into his pocket.

  "Someone mentioned another vineyard," Gamay said. "What was that name, dear?"

  "Fauchard?" Paul said.

  "That's it." She turned back to Bertrand. "Do you carry the Fauchard label?"

  "Mon Dieu. I wish I did. It's a superb wine. Their production is very limited and their wine is bought by a select group of wealthy people, mostly Europeans and rich Americans. Even if I could get it, the wine is much too expensive for my customers. We're talking a thousand dollars a bottle."

  "Really?" Gamay said. "We'd love to visit the Fauchard estate and see what sort of grapes can fetch prices like that."

  Bert hesitated and a frown came to his handsome face. "It's not far from here, but the Fauchards are ... how can I put it? Odd."

  "In what way?"

  "Not very friendly. Nobody sees them." He spread his hands. "They are an old family and there are stories."

  "What sort of stories?"

  "Old wives' tales. Farmers can be superstitious. They say the Fauchards are sang sues Bloodsuckers."

  "You mean vampires?" Gamay said with a smile.

  "Oui." Bert laughed and said, "I think they simply have so much money they are always afraid people will steal it. They are not typical of the people who live here. We are very friendly. I hope the Fauchards don't give you the wrong impression."

  "That would be impossible after enjoying your fine food and hospitality," she said with a sly smile.

  Bert beamed with pleasure and, using another napkin, wrote down

  directions to the Fauchard estate. They could get a glimpse of the vineyards, he said, but the no trespassing signs will warn them when they get closer to the estate. They thanked him, exchanged hugs and cheek busses in the French manner and got back in their car.

  Gamay broke into laughter. "A mischievous wine? I can't believe you said that."

  "I'd rather have a mischievous wine than a precocious vintage," Paul said with a haughty sniff.

  "You must admit it had high notes of raspberry," she said. "And low notes of pepper, too," Paul replied. "I don't think Bert noticed our viticultural pretensions. He was fixated on you. "You 'ave a beeyootiful wife," " Trout said in an accent like that of the old film star Charles Boyer.

  "I think he was quite charming," Gamay said with a pout. "So do I, and he was completely right about how lucky I am." "That's more like it," she said. She consulted the map Bert had drawn on the napkin. "There's a turnoff that goes to the chateau about ten miles from here."

  "Bert made it sound like Castle Dracula," Paul said. "From what Kurt told us, Madame Fauchard makes Dracula look like Mother Teresa."

  Twenty minutes later, they were driving down a long dirt road that ran through rolling hills and neatly terraced vineyards. Unlike the other vineyards they had passed on the way, there were no signs identifying the owners of the grapevines. But as the surrounding countryside changed to woods, they began to see signs on the trees warning in French, English and Spanish that they were on private property. The road ended at a gate in a high chain-link electrified fence topped with razor wire. The sign at the gate had an even sterner warning, again in three languages, saying that trespassers venturing farther would encounter armed guards and watchdogs. The threat of bodily harm to unauthorized persons was unmistakable.

  Paul read the signs and said, "It appears that Bert was right about the Fauchards. They're not the warm-and-fuzzy type."

  "Oh, I don't know," Gamay said. "If you look in your rearview mirror, you'll see that they sent someone out to greet us."

  Paul did as Gamay suggested and saw the grille emblem of a black Mercedes SUV through the window of their rented Peugeot. The Mercedes blocked the road behind them. Two men got out of the vehicle. One was short and stocky and had a shaved hea
d shaped like a bullet. He held the leash of a fierce-looking Rottweiler who wheezed as he strained against his choke collar. The second man was tall and dark-complexioned and had the fleshy nose of a prizefighter. Both men wore military-style camouflage uniforms and sidearms.

  The bald man came over to the driver's side and spoke in French, which was not Paul's strong suit, but he had no problem understanding the order to get out of the car. Gamay, on the other hand, was fluent. When the bullet-headed man asked what they were doing there, she handed him a business card, produced the napkin Bert had given them and showed them the vineyards listed on it.

  The man glanced at the names. "This is the Fauchard estate. The place you want is that way," he said, pointing.

  Gamay seemed to get agitated. She burst into a nonstop stream of French, gesturing frequently at Paul. The guards started laughing at the husbandly harangue. Bullethead gave Gamay a head-to-toe body sweep with his eyes that was more than casual. Gamay returned his unabashed interest with a coy smile. Then he, his companion and the dog got back into the Mercedes. They moved the SUV out of the way so that Paul could back out. As the car drove off, Gamay gave the guards a wave that was eagerly returned.

  "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."