Clive Cussler - Lost City

"Bert made it sound like Castle Dracula," Paul said. "From what Kurt told us, Madame Fauchard makes Dracula look like Mother Teresa."

Twenty minutes later, they were driving down a long dirt road that ran through rolling hills and neatly terraced vineyards. Unlike the other vineyards they had passed on the way, there were no signs identifying the owners of the grapevines. But as the surrounding countryside changed to woods, they began to see signs on the trees warning in French, English and Spanish that they were on private property. The road ended at a gate in a high chain-link electrified fence topped with razor wire. The sign at the gate had an even sterner warning, again in three languages, saying that trespassers venturing farther would encounter armed guards and watchdogs. The threat of bodily harm to unauthorized persons was unmistakable.

Paul read the signs and said, "It appears that Bert was right about the Fauchards. They're not the warm-and-fuzzy type."

"Oh, I don't know," Gamay said. "If you look in your rearview mirror, you'll see that they sent someone out to greet us."

Paul did as Gamay suggested and saw the grille emblem of a black Mercedes SUV through the window of their rented Peugeot. The Mercedes blocked the road behind them. Two men got out of the vehicle. One was short and stocky and had a shaved head shaped like a bullet. He held the leash of a fierce-looking Rottweiler who wheezed as he strained against his choke collar. The second man was tall and dark-complexioned and had the fleshy nose of a prizefighter. Both men wore military-style camouflage uniforms and sidearms.

The bald man came over to the driver's side and spoke in French, which was not Paul's strong suit, but he had no problem understanding the order to get out of the car. Gamay, on the other hand, was fluent. When the bullet-headed man asked what they were doing there, she handed him a business card, produced the napkin Bert had given them and showed them the vineyards listed on it.

The man glanced at the names. "This is the Fauchard estate. The place you want is that way," he said, pointing.

Gamay seemed to get agitated. She burst into a nonstop stream of French, gesturing frequently at Paul. The guards started laughing at the husbandly harangue. Bullethead gave Gamay a head-to-toe body sweep with his eyes that was more than casual. Gamay returned his unabashed interest with a coy smile. Then he, his companion and the dog got back into the Mercedes. They moved the SUV out of the way so that Paul could back out. As the car drove off, Gamay gave the guards a wave that was eagerly returned.

"Looks like we met Kurt's skinhead friend Marcel," Trout said.

"He certainly fits the menacing description," Gamay said.

"He was a lot friendlier than I expected," Trout said. "You even had the dog smiling. What did you say?"

"I told them that you were an idiot for getting us lost."

"Oh," Trout said. "And what did baldy say?"

"He said he would be glad to show me the way. I think he was flirting with me."

Trout gave her a sidelong glance. "This is the second time you've used your feminine charms. First with Bert, then on Bullet Head and his mutt."

"All's fair in love and war."

"It's not the war I'm worried about. Every Frenchman we meet seems to have bedroom eyes."

"Oh, shush. I asked him if we could drive around and look at the grapes. He said that was all right, but to stay away from the fence."

Trout turned off at the first dirt road and they bumped along through acre after acre of vineyards. After a few minutes, they pulled over and got out of the car near a crew of grape pickers who were taking a cigarette break by the roadside. There were about a dozen dark-skinned workers talking to a man who seemed to be in charge. Gamay introduced themselves as American wine buyers. The man frowned when she explained that Marcel had given them permission to drive through the vineyards.

"Oh, that one," the man said with a frown. He said his name was Guy Marchand and he was the foreman of the work crew.

"They are guest workers from Senegal," he said. "They work very hard, so I go easy on them."

"We stopped at the bistro and talked to Bertrand," Gamay said. "He told us the wine produced here is wonderful."

"Oui. C'est vrai. Come, I'll show you the vines."

He waved the grape pickers back to work and led the Trouts down a line of vines. He was a voluble talker and enthusiastic about his work, and the Trouts had no need to do their wine snob act. They had only to nod their heads as Guy went on about soil, climate and grapes. He stopped at a vine trellis and plucked a few grapes, which

he handed to Gamay and Paul. He squeezed the grapes, sniffed them and tasted the juice with the tip of his tongue. They followed suit, clucking with admiration. They headed back to the road and saw that the workers were dumping grapes into the back of a truck.

"Where is the wine bottled?" Paul said.

"On the estate itself," Guy said. "Monsieur Emil wants to make sure every bottle is accounted for."

"Who is Monsieur Emil?" Gamay said.

"Emil Fauchard is the owner of these vineyards."

"Do you think it would be possible to meet Monsieur Fauchard?" Gamay said.

"No, he keeps to himself."

"So you never see him?"

"Oh yes, we see him," Marchand said. He rolled his eyes and pointed toward the sky.

Both Trouts looked up. "I don't understand," Gamay said.

"He flies over in his little red plane to keep watch."

Guy went on to explain that Emil personally dusted the crops. He told them that Emil had once dusted one of the work crews with pesticides. Some workers became violently ill and had to be transported to the hospital. They were all illegal immigrants, so didn't complain, but Marchand threatened to quit and the workers were given paltry gifts of money in compensation. He'd been told the dusting was an accident, although it was clear from the tone of his voice that he thought Emil had done it on purpose. But the Fauchards had paid him well and he didn't complain.

While Marchand talked, the workers finished loading the truck. Paul's eyes followed the truck as it trundled along the dirt road. After going about a quarter of a mile, it took a left-hand turn and headed toward a gate in the electrified fence. As a fisherman, Paul had developed a keen eye for detail and he could see a couple of guards standing in front of the gate. He watched the truck slow down, then it was waved through and the gate closed behind it.

Paul tapped Gamay's shoulder and said, "I think it's time to go."

They thanked Marchand, got in their car and headed back to the main road that would take them out of the vineyards.

"Interesting conversation," Gamay said. "Emil sounds just as lovely as Kurt described him." Paul only grunted in return. Gamay was used to Paul's sometimes taciturn nature, a trait he had inherited from his New England forebears, but detected something deeper in his monosyllabic reply. "Is there anything wrong?"

"I'm fine. The story about the 'accidental' dusting got me thinking again about all the misery Emil and his family have caused. They're responsible for the death of Dr. MacLean and his scientific colleagues, and that Englishman, Cavendish. Who knows how many more they've killed through the years?"

Gamay nodded. "I can't get those poor mutants out of my mind. They've had to endure a living death."

Paul whacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "It makes me want to punch someone in the nose."

Gamay was surprised at the uncharacteristic outburst. She arched an eyebrow. "We'll have to figure out a way to get past that fence and guards before we do any nose punching."

"That may be sooner than you think," Paul said with a smile, and he began to describe his plan.