Clive Cussler - Serpent

In silent reply, the figure took a step forward. Metal gleamed in the stranger's hand, and in the last terrifying moments of his life Irwin realized what had happened to Mehta and the guide, even if he didn't know why.

China

12 HOW FAR ARE WE FROM THE SITE, CHANG?"

The wiry man standing at the riverboat's long tiller held up two fingers.

"Two miles or two hours?" Jack Quinn said.

A gaptoothed grin appeared on the steersman's wizened fare. He shrugged and pointed to his ear. Either the question had exceeded his meager grasp of English or he simply couldn't hear over the racket generated by an antique Evinrude outboard motor.

Worn valves, defective muffler, and a loose housing that vibrated like a drumhead combined in an uproar that echoed off the riverbanks and drowned out all attempts at verbal communication.

Quinn ran his fingers through thinning black hair and adjusted his stocky body in a vain attempt to locate a more comfortable position for his posterior. It was a lost cause. The low-slung, narrow-beamed craft was shaped vaguely like a surfboard and partially covered by a rough deck whose sunsplintered surface discouraged sitting.

Quinn finally gave up. He hunched his shoulders and stared with glazed eyes at the passing scenery. They had left the rice paddies and tea plantations behind them. Occasionally they passed a fishing village and a grazing water buffalo, but soon only golden fields rolled off to mistshrouded mountains in the distance. The beauty of China was lost on Quinn. He could think only of Ferguson, his project manager.

The first message from Ferguson had been exciting.

"Found many clay soldiers. This could be bigger than Van."

Quinn knew right away that Ferguson was talking about the seven-thousand-strong army of terracotta soldiers discovered in an imperial mausoleum near the Chinese city of Van. It was the sort of news Quinn liked to relay to the governing board of the East Asia Foundation, which he served as executive director.

The foundation was set up by a group of wealthy patrons to promote eastwest understanding and atone for the opium trade. It was also a tax writeoff so those living comfortably off the fortunes their forebears made hooking hundreds of thousands of Chinese on drugs could enjoy their wealth to the fullest.

As part of its program the foundation sponsored archaeological digs in China. These were popular with the board because they cost the foundation nothing, being largely subsidized by enthusiastic amateurs who paid money to participate, and because they sometimes made the front page of The New York Times.

Quinn would visit a site when he could be sure of favorable publicity, but it usually took a lot to pry him from the mahogany and leather comfort of his New York office.

The second message from the field was even better than the first.

"Found exciting artifact. Details to follow"

Quinn had already primed his newspaper and TV contacts when the third message arrived.

Artifact is Mayan!"

Before taking the foundation job, Quinn had run a university museum and had a sketchy knowledge of ancient cultures. He fired off a reply to Ferguson: "Mayan is not Chinese. Impossible."

A few days later he heard from Ferguson again. "Impossible but true. No kidding."

That night Quinn packed a bag and took the next flight to Hong Kong, where he caught a train to the interior. After a bus ride of several hours he arrived at the river just in time to hitch a ride with Chiang. In addition to keeping the expedition supplied, Chiang served as postman, running communications to a telegraph office, which explained why the messages were so agonizingly slow.

Quinn learned that Chiang had visited the site a few days before, which must have been when he picked up Ferguson's last letter. Quinn's anger had been building during the course of his long, hard journey. It was only a question of whether he would fire Ferguson before or after he threw him in the river. As they neared the site, Quinn began to wonder if Ferguson had simply gone raving mad. Maybe it was something in the water.

Quinn still hadn't decided on a course of action when the boat angled in and bumped up against the shore where the banking had been worn down by foot traffic. Chiang tied up at a post stuck in the ground, then he and Quinn both grabbed a couple of boxes with supplies and began to walk inland.

As they followed a path through high yellow grass, Quinn asked, "How far?"

One finger. Quinn figured it to be one hour or one mile. He was wrong on both counts. One minute later they came upon an area where the grass had been tramped down in a more or less circular shape.

Chiang put down his load and gestured at Quinn to do the same.

"Where's the camp?" Quinn said, looking for people or tents.

Chiang's face was creased in a puzzled frown. Tugging at his scraggly beard, he pointed emphatically to the ground.

End of a perfect day Quinn fumed. He was tired and dirty, his stomach was roiling like a boiled pot, and now his guide was lost. Chiang said something in Chinese and motioned for Quinn to follow. After a few minutes' walk he stopped and pointed to the ground. A couple of acres of dirt had been turned over.

Quinn walked along the perimeter of the disturbed soil until his eye caught a roundish object protruding from the dirt. He dug away at it with his hands and after a few minutes revealed the head and shoulders of a terracotta soldier. He dug some more and found other soldiers.

This must be the site, but there should be about a dozen people here. Where the hell was everybody? Chiang glanced fearfully around him. "Devils," he said, and ' without another word trotted back toward the river.

The air grew colder as if a cloud had passed over the sun. Quinn realized he was all alone. The only sound was the snakelike rustle of the breeze through the grass. He took one last look around and dashed toward the retreating figure, leaving behind the ranks of silent soldiers entombed in the earth.

FairFax County, Virginia

13 IN THE SULTRY STILLNESS OF THE Virginia morning Austin shoved off from the boat ramp, wrapped his thick fingers around the carbonfiber oar handles, and with a long smooth pull sent his arrow-slim racing scull darting into the sparkling waters of the Potomac River.

Sculling on the Potomac was a daily ritual Austin followed faithfully in between assignments. As the doctor ordered, he had given his left side a rest. Once the stitches healed he began his own therapy regimen using the weights and machines in his exercise room and daily swims in his pool. He had gradually increased the demands on his body until he considered it safe to row without tearing newly mended muscle.

The time to test the regimen came on a particularly lovely day when the siren call of the river became impossible to resist. He hauled his sleek twenty-one-foot-long Maas Aero racing scull from the lower level of the boathouse he'd converted into his home just below the palisades in Fairfax County. Jockeying the light shell down the ramp and into the water was not difficult. The real adventure was getting into the slender boat without tipping it over.

His first attempt to row was pure disaster. The Concept 11 composite oars were featherlight, but with their ninefoot length and the weight and pressure of the blades against the water, Austin took only a few painful strokes before turning back in a cold sweat. His side felt as if a meat hook hung off it. He deliberately capsized the shell near shore, staggered into the house, and stood in front of the medicine cabinet looking at his ashen reflection as he popped painkillers that only slightly dulled the agony. He waited a few days then tried again. He favored his right arm, and the uneven strokes tended to send the scull into an unpretty series of connected arcs, but at least he was moving. Within days he could row without gritting his teeth.