Clive Cussler - White Death

Over the wave-tops, he caught a blurred glimpse of a boat speed- ing his way: His pursuers were no doubt coming to finish off the job. A gurgled laugh escaped from his throat. By the time they ar- rived, he'd be nothing but a giant Slurpee.

SECONDS BEFORE HE slipped below the surface, however, Austin's one-way trip to Davey Jones's locker was cut short. A hand reached over the side of the launch and grabbed him by the hair. His teeth clacked like a pair of castanets, and his scalp felt as if it were being pulled out by the roots. Then other hands were grabbing him by the armpits and collar, and he was hauled from the sea, sputter- ing and coughing, like a kitten in a well.

His legs were still dangling in the water when the motor launch took off and raced over the waves with a roar of jet propulsion en- gines, its bow high in the air. Through blurred vision, Austin saw, to his surprise, that they were swinging alongside the blue yacht. Semi-conscious, he was passed up to the deck and carried to what must be the sick bay, where he was relieved of his soggy clothes, wrapped in warm towels and examined by a frowning man with a stethoscope. Then he was thrust into a sauna, where, eventually, he could move his fingers and toes. He was examined a second time and given a blue fleece sweat suit to wear. Apparently, he was going to live.

His transition from near-death to near-life was accomplished under the watchful eye of two men, built like professional wrestlers, who spoke to each other in Spanish. The same guard dogs escorted him as he walked on rubber legs to a luxurious stateroom. They set- tled him into a comfortable reclining chair, covered him with a soft blanket and left him to rest.

Austin fell into an exhausted sleep. When he awakened, he saw

that he was under scrutiny by a pair of dark eyes. A man sat in an armchair, watching him from a few feet away, as if he were a speci- men on a lab slide.

The man grinned when he saw Austin's eyelids flutter. "Good. You're awake," he said. His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke American English with only a hint of an accent.

The man reached over to a side table for a silver-plated flask and poured Austin a drink. With shaking fingers, Austin swirled the greenish-yellow amber liquor around in the bottom of the brandy snifter, breathed in the heavy fumes and took a deep sip. The fiery herbal liquor trickled down his throat, and its warmth spread throughout his body.

Austin glanced at the flask. "This tastes too good to be antifreeze, but the effect is the same."

The man chuckled and took a swig from the flask. "Green Izarra is one hundred proof," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's usually served in glasses hardly bigger than your thumb. I thought a little extra might be of benefit in your case. How is your wound?"

Austin's hand reached down and touched his ribs. He could feel the stiffness of a bandage under his shirt, but there was no pain, even when he pressed with his fingers. He remembered the flash of white as the ivory knife slashed his flesh.

"How bad was it?"

"Another half-inch deeper and we would have been burying you at sea." The grim assessment was accompanied by a grin. "It feels okay."

"My ship's doctor is an expert in treating trauma. He sewed you up and froze the wound."

Austin glanced around at his surroundings, his memories return- ing. "Ship's doctor? This is the blue yacht, isn't it?"

"That's right. My name is Balthazar Aguirrez. This is my boat." With his barrel chest and large hands, Aguirrez looked more like a longshoreman than the owner of a yacht that was probably worth several million dollars. He had a broad forehead and thick black eye- brows over a strong nose, a wide mouth that curved upward in a natural grin, and a chin like a granite ledge. His eyes were the purple- black of ripe olives. He wore a light-blue sweat suit identical to the

one on loan to Austin. A black beret was perched at a jaunty angle on his thick pepper-and-salt hair.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Aguirrez. My name is Kurt Austin. Thanks for your hospitality."

Aguirrez extended his hand in a bone-crunching grip. "Think nothing of it, Mr. Austin. We like to entertain guests." His dark eyes danced with amusement. "Most arrive on board in a

more conventional manner, however. May I pour you another Izarra?"

Austin waved it off. He wanted to keep a clear head. "Perhaps after you have some food. Are you hungry?"

Austin had worked up an appetite since the bread and cheese he'd eaten for brunch. "Yes, now that you mention it. I wouldn't mind a sandwich."

"I would be a poor host if I could not do better than a sandwich.

If you feel well enough, I'd like you to join me for a light meal in the salon."

Austin levered himself out of the chair and stood, somewhat shak- ily. "I'll be fine."

Aguirrez said, "Splendid. I'll give you a few minutes. Come when you're ready." He rose and left the cabin. Austin stared at the closed door and shook his head. His brain still felt waterlogged. He was weak from blood loss. He went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He looked like a commercial for ghoul makeup. Not sur- prising after being stabbed, shot at and blown out of the water. He washed his face with cold, then hot, water. Noticing an electric shaver, he removed the stubble on his chin. When he stepped back into the stateroom, he saw he had company.

The tough-faced stewards who had escorted him earlier were wait- ing. One opened the door and led the way, while the other man took up the rear. The walk gave Austin ample opportunity to exercise, and he felt his legs grow stronger with every step. They came to the main deck salon, and one of the men motioned for Austin to enter. Then he and the other man left him alone.

Austin stepped into the salon and raised his eyebrows. He had been on dozens of yachts and had found the decor to be similar. Chrome and leather and clean contemporary lines were the norm. But the Navarras salon resembled the interior of a southern European farmhouse.

The eggshell-white walls and ceiling were of stucco, inlaid with rough-hewn beams, and the floor was a red tile. A fire was crackling in a large, stone fireplace that had been built into one wall. Over the mantle was a painting of men playing a game Austin recognized as jai alai. He went up to a still-life painting of assorted fruit and was examining the signature when a deep voice said, "Interested in art, Mr. Austin?"

Aguirrez had come up from behind without making a sound. Austin said, "I collect dueling pistols, which I think of as a form of art."

"Without question! Deadly art is still art. I picked up that Cezanne for my little collection last year. The other pieces I found at auction or acquired from private sources."

Austin strolled past the Gauguins, a Degas, Manets and Monets. The "little collection" was more extensive than that found in many museums. He moved to another wall that was covered with large photographs.

"These are originals, too?"

"A few of my holdings," Aguirrez said, with a shrug. "Ship- building yards, steel mills and so forth." He sounded like a jaded waiter rattling off items on a menu. "But enough of business." He took Austin by the arm. "Dinner is ready."

He led the way through sliding doors into an elegant dining room. At the center of the room was an oval mahogany table set for twelve. Aguirrez removed his beret and, with a snap of his wrist and great accuracy, flung it to a chair across the room. He gestured grandly to- ward the two opposite chairs at one end of the table. As the two men

took their seats, a waiter appeared from nowhere and poured their tall goblets full of wine.

"I think you will like this sturdy Spanish Rioja," Aguirrez said. He raised his glass. "To art."