Clive Cussler - Lost Empire

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 burlap 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’?”

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.”