Clive Cussler - Lost City

There were more shrieks intermingled with the shouts of his men, and blurred glimpses of long white hair, yellow teeth, glowing red eyes and lunging bodies.

His shotgun was knocked from his hands. Withered hands clawed at his throat. He was thrown to the deck and the overpowering smell of decaying flesh filled his nostrils.

THE ROLLS-ROYCE Silver Cloud raced through the sundrenched French countryside, passing a blur of farmhouses, rolling green fields and yellow haystacks. Darnay had offered the use of his car before he flew off to Provence. Unlike his colleague Dirk Pitt, who favored exotic cars, Austin drove a nondescript vehicle from the NUMA motor pool back home. As the Rolls whisked over hill and dale, Austin felt as if he were at the controls of a flying carpet.

Skye sat beside him, her hair playfully tousled by the warm breeze flowing through the open windows. She noticed the faint smile on his lips. "A penny for your thoughts."

"I was congratulating myself on my good luck. I'm driving a magnificent car through countryside that could have inspired a Van Gogh painting. There's a lovely woman at my side. And I'm on the NUMA payroll."

Skye gazed with longing at the passing scenery. "It's unfortunate that you are being paid. Otherwise, we could forget about the

Fauchards and go off on our own. I'm so sick of this whole sordid business."

"This shouldn't take long," Austin said. "We passed a charming auberge a while back. After we visit chez Fauchard, we could stop and have the dinner we've been putting off."

"All the more reason to wrap up our visit as quickly as possible." The car was approaching a crossroad. Skye consulted a map. "We should be turning off not far from here."

Several minutes later, Austin wheeled the car onto a narrow strip of macadam. Hard dirt tracks branched off from the road and provided access to vineyards stretching as far as the eye could see. The vineyards eventually thinned out and the car came to an electrified chain-link fence. NO trespassing signs in several languages hung from the fence. The gate was open so they kept on going and plunged into a dense forest. Thick tree trunks hugged the road on both sides and the dense canopy filtered the sun's rays.

The temperature dropped several degrees. Skye crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders.

"Cold?" Austin said. "I can roll up the windows." "I'm fine," she said. "I wasn't prepared for the abrupt change from the lovely farmland and vineyards. This forest is... so foreboding." Austin glanced at the dense woods. He saw only shadows beyond the phalanx of trees. Occasionally, the woods opened to reveal a dank marsh. He flicked on the headlights, but they only served to intensify the gloominess.

Then the scenery began to change. The road widened and was bordered on both sides by tall oaks. Their branches interlocked high above, creating a long tree tunnel that went on for at least a mile before ending quite suddenly. The road began to rise.

"Mon Dieu!" Skye exclaimed when she saw the massive granite pile that loomed ahead on a low hill.

Austin's eyes took in the conical turrets and the high, crenellated walls.

"We seem to have passed through a time warp into fourteenth-century Transylvania."

Skye said in hushed tones, "It's magnificent in an ominous sort of way."

Austin was less enthralled with the chateau's architecture. He gave her a sidelong glance. "They used to say the same thing about Castle Dracula."

He wheeled the Rolls onto a white gravel driveway that encircled an ornate fountain whose motif was a group of armor-clad men hacking each other to death in bloody combat. The bronze faces on the struggling warriors were twisted in agony.

"Charming," Austin said.

"Ugh! It's absolutely grotesque."

Austin parked the Rolls near an arched bridge that spanned a wide moat. A swampy odor rose from the greenish-brown surface of the stagnant water. They walked across the bridge and drawbridge and passed through a gate into the expansive cobblestone-paved courtyard that surrounded the chateau and separated the building from the encircling walls. No one came to greet them so they made their way across the courtyard and climbed the stairs to a terrace that ran along the front of the house.

Austin put his hand on the massive knocker that decorated the iron-banded wooden door. "Does this look familiar?"

"It's the same eagle design as on the helmet and the plane."

Nodding in agreement, Austin lifted the knocker and let it drop twice.

"I predict that a toothless hunchback named Igor will open the door," he said.

"If that happens, I'm running for the car."

"If that happens, I'd advise you not to get in my way," Austin said. The man who answered the doorbell's ring was neither toothless nor hunched. He was tall and blond and dressed in white tennis clothes. He could have been in his forties, or fifties, although it was hard to tell his age because his face was unlined and he was as trim as a professional athlete.

"You must be Mr. Austin," the man said with a bright smile, his hand extended in greeting.

"That's right. And this is my assistant, Mademoiselle Bouchet." "I'm Emil Fauchard. A pleasure to meet you. You're very kind to come all the way from Paris. My mother has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Please come this way."

He ushered his guests into a commodious foyer and led the way at a brisk pace along a carpeted hallway. Painted on the high vaulted ceilings were mythological scenes showing nymphs, satyrs and centaurs in unearthly woodland settings. As they followed their guide, Skye leaned into Austin's ear. "So much for your Igor theory."

"It was only a hunch," Austin said with astraight face. Skye rolled her eyes, the only appropriate response to Austin's pun. The hallway seemed endless, although it was hardly a boring walk. Decorating the dark wood-paneled walls were enormous tapestries of medieval hunting scenes showing life-sized figures of nobles and squires whose arrows were making pincushions out of hapless deer and wild boar.

Fauchard stopped at a door, which he opened, and gestured for them to enter.

The chamber they stepped into was a stark contrast to the chateau's oversized architecture. It was small and intimate and with its low beamed ceilings and walls lined with antiquated books, it was like a room in a country cottage. A woman sat in a leather chair in a corner of the room, reading by the light streaming through a tall window.

"Mother," Fauchard softly called out. "Our visitors have arrived. This is Mr. Austin and his assistant, Mademoiselle Bouchet." Skye had chosen her alias out of the Paris phone book.

The woman smiled and put her book down, then stood to greet them. She was tall and almost military in her posture. A black business suit and lavender scarf set off her pale complexion and silver hair. Moving as gracefully as a ballerina, she came over and shook hands. Her grip was unexpectedly strong.

"Please sit down," she said, indicating two comfortable leather chairs. Glancing at her son, she said, "Our guests must be thirsty after their long drive." She spoke English with no accent.

"I'll attend to it on my way out," Emil said.

a Moments later, a servant appeared bearing cold bottled water and glasses on a tray. Austin studied Madame Fauchard as she dismissed the servant and poured their glasses full. As with her son, it was difficult to guess her age. She could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old. Whatever her age, she was quite beautiful in a classic sense. Except for a spidery network of wrinkles, her complexion was as flawless as a cameo and her gray eyes were alert and intelligent. Her smile ranged from beguiling to the mysterious, and when she spoke her voice had only a few of the cracks in it that can come with old age.