Clive Cussler - Lost City

There was a flurry of activity at the door.

"What luck. You and our new guests arrived at feeding time."

A crew of guards entered, pushing a dolly stacked high with rat traps, the humane type that catches rodents without killing them. The guards unloaded the dolly, carried the traps and their squeaking occupants to the cages and released the rats.

Eyes glittering like rubies, the white-haired creatures had returned to the front of the cages. They must have been familiar with the drill because they were ready when the rats darted out of the traps. They pounced on the unfortunate rodents with the speed of panthers. Growling ferociously, they ripped the rats to pieces and devoured them with all the gusto of a gourmet in a five-star restaurant.

Sandy ran for the door again. This time, the man wearing the

beret stood aside and let her go, roaring with laughter. Gamay was tempted to follow, but she knew she would rip the man's arm off if he laid a hand on her.

"The young lady evidently does not appreciate our recycling system. We control our rat infestation and feed our pets at the same time." Turning to MacLean he said, "I hope you have told our guests what a lovely place this is."

"You are far more eloquent and persuasive than I could ever be, Colonel," MacLean said.

"That is true," the man said. He turned to face Trout. "I am Colonel Strega, the commander of this laboratory facility. The filthy devils you see enjoying their fine meals were once men like you. If you and the ladies do not do as you are told, we can make you into one of these fine-mannered fellows. Or we can feed you to them. It will all be according to my mood and generosity. The rules here are simple. You will work without complaint and in return you will be allowed to live. Do you understand?"

Trout was trying his best to ignore the gnawing and belching that issued from the cages. "I understand, Colonel, and I'll pass your message along to my weak-stomached friend."

Strega stared at Trout with his wolfish yellow eyes as if trying to memorize his face. Then he gave Gamay a 14-karat smile, clicked his heels, wheeled about and headed for the door. The guards prodded the Trouts out of the building, although they didn't need any persuasion. Strega was getting into a Mercedes convertible. Sandy was leaning against the building, vomiting. Gamay went over and put her arm around the Alvin's pilot.

"Sorry about all that," MacLean said. "Strega insists on this orientation for newcomers. It's guaranteed to scare the pants off them." "It scared more than that off me," Sandy said. "Next time I'll know to wear a diaper."

MacLean sighed. "We've all had a hard day. Let's get you settled

in your quarters. After you've had a chance to shower and change, we'll get together for a drink at my place."

The bus went another half mile, passing through more barbed and electrified fence, finally stopping at a complex laid out with a large round-roofed building surrounded by small flat-roofed structures.

"That's the lab where we'll be working," MacLean said. He pointed to a building set off by itself. "That's Strega's place. The guards have their quarters right next door. The cottages are for scientific staff. They look like bunkers, but you'll find them quite comfortable."

The guard ordered everyone off the bus and pointed the Trouts and Sandy to a pair of adjoining cottages. MacLean place was next door. Trout and Gamay went to their quarters, basically one room with an iron bed, a small table and chair and a bathroom. It was spartan but clean. They shed their clothes and took long hot showers. Trout shaved with the dull disposable razor left for him.

Two lime-colored one-piece coveralls lay neatly folded on the bed. They had no desire to get into a prison uniform, but their own clothes had smelled vile even before they visited the animal house. Trout's coveralls were somewhat short in the sleeves and legs, but not uncomfortable. The bow tie didn't match but he wore it anyhow. Gamay would have looked glamorous even in sackcloth.

They went next door to get Sandy, but she was sleeping and they decided not to awaken her. MacLean welcomed them to his cottage, which was identical to the others except for its well-stocked bar. He insisted that they call him Mac, then he poured three glasses of Scotch whiskey and took the bottle with him when they went outside. The air was cool but not uncomfortable.

"I think my quarters may be bugged," MacLean explained. "Colonel Strega is a resourceful man."

"I'm not sure I care for his sense of humor," Gamay said.

"He's better known for his other qualities. The World Court

would like to talk to him in regard to some mass graves in Bosnia. How's your drink?"

"Fine. We couldn't do better at Club Med," she said. "When I get too depressed, I pretend I'm on vacation in an out-of-the-way resort," MacLean said.

"At the resorts I've visited, lunch wasn't delivered in rat traps," Trout said.

There was an awkward silence, which was broken by Gamay. "What, or who were those loathsome creatures in those cages?" MacLean took his time answering. "Those were mistakes." "As a fellow scientist, you'll understand when we say you have to be more specific," Trout said.

"Sorry. Maybe I had better start at the beginning." MacLean poured more whiskey into his glass, took a hearty swallow and stared into space with a far-off look in his eyes.

"It seems so long ago, but it's only been three years since I was hired by a small research company outside of Paris to work with enzymes, the proteins that are produced by living cells. We were interested in the role that enzymes play in the aging process. Our company had only limited resources, so we were ecstatic when a large conglomerate absorbed our lab."

"Who was behind this conglomerate?" Trout asked. "We didn't know and we didn't care. It didn't even have a name. We received substantial raises. We were promised greater funding and resources. We didn't mind when new conditions were imposed." "What sort of conditions?"

"Under our new management, guards constantly watched us. Men in lab coats and suits, but guards nonetheless. Our movements were restricted. We lived in housing close to the lab. Company vehicles picked us up every morning and night. Those with families were allowed visitors from time to time, but all of us were warned of the secrecy of our work. We even signed contracts agreeing to the strict

rules, but you have to understand, we were giddy. We were on a quest for the true Philosopher's Stone."

"I thought you were a chemist, not an alchemist," Gamay said. "As I recall, the Philosopher's Stone was a substance that could transform base metals like lead into silver or gold."

MacLean nodded. "That's a common wzwconception. Many ancients believed that the stone was the legendary 'elixir of life." If you mixed this wonderful substance with wine, the solution could heal wounds, restore youth and prolong life. That's the stone we were looking for."

"The quest for immortality," Trout mused. "It might have been easier to turn lead into gold."

A faint smile crossed MacLean's lips. "Many times during our research I had the same thought. I often pondered the impossibility of the task we had set ourselves."

* "You're not the first to fail in that quest," Trout said.

"Oh no, Dr. Trout. You misunderstand. We didn't fail." "Hold on, Mac. You're saying the elixir of life exists?"

"Yes. We discovered it at the bottom of the sea in the hydrothermal vents of the Lost City."

They stared at MacLean wondering if the insanity of this island had turned the Scotsman into a madman.

"I've been poking my proboscis into sea mud for a long time," Trout said after a moment. "I've yet to discover anything that resembles the Fountain of Youth."

Gamay shook her head. "You'll have to excuse my skepticism. As a marine biologist, I'm more familiar than Paul with the vents, and to be honest, I don't have a clue what you're talking about."