Clive Cussler - Lost City

"Perhaps you'll answer a question for me," Trout said. "Why did you kidnap us and hijack the Alvin?"

MacLean replied with a rueful chuckle. "I had nothing to do with it. I'm as much a prisoner on this vessel as you are."

"I don't understand," Sandy said.

"I can't explain now. All I can say is that we are fortunate that they can use your professional expertise. Like me, they will keep you alive only as long as they need you."

"Who are they?" Trout asked.

MacLean ran his long gray fingers through his graying hair. "It would be dangerous for you to know."

"Whoever you are," Gamay said, "please tell the people who kidnapped us and took our submersible that our support ship will have people looking for us the second we're missed."

"They told me that won't be a problem. I've no reason to disbelieve them."

"What did they mean?" Trout said.

"I don't know. But I do know that these people are ruthless in the pursuit of their goals."

"What are their goals?" Gamay said.

The blue eyes seemed to deepen. "There are some questions it is not wise for you to ask or for me to answer." He rose from his chair and said, "I must report the results of my interrogation." He pointed at the light fixture and touched his fingers to his lips in a clear warning of a hidden microphone. "I'll return shortly with food and drink. I suggest you get some rest."

"Do you trust him?" Sandy said after MacLean left them alone once more.

"His story seems crazy enough to be true," Gamay said. "Do you have any suggestions on what we should do?" Sandy said, looking from face to face.

Trout lay back in a bunk and attempted to stretch out, although his long legs hung off the edge of the mattress. He pointed to the light fixture and said, "Unless someone wants this bunk, I'm going to do as MacLean suggested and get some rest."

MacLean returned about half an hour later with cheese sandwiches, a thermos of hot coffee and three mugs. More important, he was smiling.

"Congratulations," he said, handing around the sandwiches. "You are now officially employed in our project."

Gamay unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. "What exactly if this project?"

"I can't tell you everything. Suffice it to say that you are part of a research team. You will each be working on a need-to-know basis. I've been allowed to give you a tour as a way of acclimating you to the task ahead. I'll explain on the way. Our babysitter is waiting for us."

He rapped on the door, which was opened by a grim-faced guard who stood aside to let MacLean and the others out. With the guard trailing behind, MacLean led the way along a network of corridors until they came to a large room whose walls were covered with television monitors and glowing arrays of electronic instrument panels.

The guard took up a position where he could keep a close eye on them, but otherwise didn't interfere.

"This is the control room," MacLean said.

Trout glanced around. "Where's the crew?"

"This vessel is almost entirely automated. There is only a small crew, a contingent of guards and the divers, of course."

"I saw the moon suits in the room near the air lock."

"You're very observant," MacLean said with a nod of his head. "Now if you look at that screen, you'll see the divers at work."

A wall screen showed a picture of a column typical of the Lost City. As they watched, there was movement at the bottom of the screen. A diver clad in a bulbous moon suit was rising up the side of the column, propelled by vertical thrusters built into the suit. He was followed by three other divers, similarly equipped, all clutching thick rubber hoses in the mechanical manipulators that served as their hands.

Soundlessly, the grotesque figures floated up until they were near the top of the screen. Like bees collecting nectar, they stopped under the mushroom-shaped mantle rocks.

"What are they doing?" Trout said.

"I know," Sandy said. "They're collecting bio-organisms from the microbe colonies that live around the vents."

"That's correct. They are removing entire colonies," MacLean said. "The living material and the liquid it grows in are transported through the hoses to holding tanks."

"Are you saying this is a scientific expedition?" Gamay said.

"Not exactly. Keep watching."

Two divers had broken off from the others and moved on to the top of another column; the pair that was left began to dismantle the column itself, using handsaws.

"They're destroying the columns," Sandy said. "This is criminal!

MacLean glanced over at the guard to see if he had noticed Sandy's outburst. He was leaning against the wall with a bored, detached expression on his face. MacLean waved to get the guard's attention and he pointed at a door off the control room. The guard yawned and nodded his approval. MacLean escorted the others through the door, which opened into a room full of large circular plastic vats.

"We can talk here," MacLean said. "These are storage vats for the biological material."

"The holding capacity must be huge," Gamay observed.

"It's very hard to keep the organisms alive away from their natural habitat. That's why they're taking down some of the columns. Only a small percentage of the harvest will be useful by the time we get back to land."

"Did you say land}" Trout said.

"Yes, the collected specimens are ultimately processed in a facility located on an island. We make periodic trips to unload the tanks. I'm not sure where it is."

MacLean saw the guard looking at them. "Sorry. Our babysitter seems to have stirred from his lethargy. We'll have to continue our discussion later."

"Quickly tell me about the island. It may be our only chance to escape."

"Escape? There's no hope of escape."

"There's always hope. What's it like on this island?"

MacLean saw the guard walking toward them and lowered his voice, making his words sound even more ominous. "It's worse than anything Dante could have imagined."

AS AUSTIN'S GAZE swept the steep walls and sturdy battlements that enclosed the Fauchard chateau, he felt an enormous respect for the artisans who had layered the heavy blocks into place. His admiration was tempered by the knowledge that the efficient killing machine those long-dead craftsmen had built to keep attackers at bay worked equally well to prevent those inside from getting out.

"Well," Skye said. "What do you think?"

"If Alcatraz were built on land, it would look something like this."

"Then what do we do?"

He hooked his arm in hers. "We continue our stroll."

After they had discovered the portcullis closed and their car gone, Austin and Skye had sauntered around the courtyard perimeter like tourists on a holiday. From time to time, they would stop and chat before ambling on. The casual veneer was meant to deceive. Austin hoped that anyone watching would think they were completely at ease.

As they walked, Austin's coral-blue eyes probed the enclosure for weaknesses. His brain cataloged every minute detail. By the time

they had circled the courtyard and returned to their starting point, he could have drawn an accurate diagram of the chateau complex from memory.

Skye stopped and rattled a wrought-iron gate blocking a narrow stairway to the battlements. It was bolted shut. "We're going to need wings to get over these walls," she said.

"My wings are at the dry cleaner's," Austin replied. "We'll have to think of something else. Let's go back inside and nose around."

Emil Fauchard greeted them on the terrace. He flashed his toothy smile and said, "Did you have a pleasant tour of the chateau?"

"They don't build them like this anymore," Austin said. "By the way, we noticed our car was gone."

"Oh yes, we moved it out of the way to make room for our arriving guests. The keys were in the ignition. We'll pull it around when you're ready to leave. I hope you don't mind."