Clive Cussler - Serpent

Behind the house was a fairsized vegetable garden and a children's swing and slide set. Austin followed the sound of the breaking surf across a wide lawn to the edge of a sandy cliff and stood for a moment at the top of a weatherbeaten stairway that led down to the beach. The beach was obscured and ocean sound muffled by the fog, but he could hear distant rollers slapping against the shore. He turned and looked back at the house. In the fog and waning light he could barely see the place.

Figuring he had done all he could, Austin returned to the car and wrote a note that included his telephone number, asking Donatelli to call him as soon as possible. He trudged back to the front door. Low-tech communication, but it might work. He would follow it up with a phone call when he got back to his office.

He climbed onto the broad porch and tucked the rolled-up note under the ornate door knocker, thinking the brass weight would keep the paper ..from blowing away. He realized he had more important things than the wind to worry about. Hard cold metal pressed against the back of his neck Then came the unmistakable click of a very large gun being cocked. Until then there had been no sound, not even a footfall.

"Hands up," a harsh voice said. "Don't turn around." The man spoke with an accent.

Austin slowly lifted his hands. "Mr. Donatelli?"

"Don't talk," the man said, emphasizing his order with a hard jab to the neck A practiced hand frisked Austin, deftly slipping his wallet out of his pocket. Satisfied Austin carried no weapon, the man ordered him to climb the outside stairs leading from the porch to a second story deck that wrapped around three sides of the house. The fog had closed in with a vengeance, and in the dimming light Austin would not have seen the figure leaning against a railing if his attention had not been caught by the orange glow of a cigarette and the smell of strong tobacco.

"Sit," said the man with the gun. Austin did as he was told, plunking into a deck chair that was damp with moisture. Keeping his gun leveled at Austin, the man spoke in Italian to the smoker. They conferred for a minute.

The figure in the fog spoke. "Who are you?"

"My name is Kurt Austin, and I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

Pause. "You're consistent, anyhow. That's the same story you gave lieutenant Coffin." The voice had an accent, but it wasn't as thick as that of the gun carrier.

"You talked to Coffin?"

"Of course. The police try to keep their summer residents happy Especially those who are big contributors to their equipment fund. I've requested that he let me know if anyone ever asks for me. He even offered to come out here with you. I told him I could handle the situation by myself."

"Then you are Mr. Donatelli."

1 ask the questions." Another sharp jab in the spine. "Who are you really?"

"My wallet has identification."

"Identification can be forged."

Donatelli was going to be a tough sell. "Lieutenant Coffin called NUMA and verified that I am who I said I am."

"I have no doubt you are who you claim. It's what you really are that interests me."

Austin's patience was eroding. "Make believe I don't understand what you're talking about, Mr. Donatelli."

"Why would a big government agency like NUMA want to tally to me? I run a restaurant in New York. The only thing I have to do with the ocean is the seafood I buy from Fulton Fish Market."

Reasonable question. "You were on the Andrea Doria. "

"Lieutenant Coffin said you mentioned the Doria. That's old news, isn't it?"

"We were hoping you might have some information bearing on a case we're working on."

"Tell me about this case, Mr. Austin. You may put your hands down, but remember that my cousin Antonio is from Sicily, and, like most Sicilians, he trusts nobody. He is quite good with the lupara especially at close range."

Lupara was the sawed-off shotgun that used to be the choice of the Sicilian Mafia before they went to automatic weapons and car bombs. An antique but still deadly.

"Before I start," Austin said evenly, "I'd appreciate it if you told Cousin Tony that if he doesn't stop sticking me in the neck, his lupara is going to end up where the sun don't shine."

Austin had no way to carry out his threat, but it had been a long day and he was tired of getting jabbed. Donatelli translated for the gunman. Antonio stepped away and stood off to one side, the gun still leveled at Austin. A slit that could have been a mouth opened into what might have been a smile.

A cigarette lighter flared in the darkness, showing Donatelli's deep-set eyes. "Now, tell us your story, Mr. Austin."

So he did. "The whole thing started in Morocco," Austin began From there he worked his way to the present, explaining how the trail had led to Donatelli. "One of our researchers came access your name in a newspaper article. When I read that you had seen an armored truck robbery on the ship, I wanted to talk to you."

Donatelli was silent for a moment, then he spoke in Italian to his cousin. The stocky figure who'd been standing next to Austin moved silently through the sliders, and a second later a light came on inside the house.

"Let us go inside and be comfortable, Mr. Austin. It's damp out here. Bad for the bones. I must apologize. I thought you were one of them. They would never bother to concoct such a fantastic story, so it must be true."

Austin stepped inside. Donatelli gestured to a plush chair next to the large fireplace, eased into an opposite chair, and clicked a remote control. A gas fire huffed on in the hearth. The heat penetrating the glass screen felt good.. Austin was covered with moisture that had nothing to do with the dew point.

His eyes rose to the mantel and rested on a minutely detailed scale model of the Andrea Doria. The model was only part of the collection of memorabilia, photos, and paintings, even a flotation device, that was sprinkled around the spacious living room. All having to do with the Doria.

Donatelli was studying him. The flickering light from the fireplace bathed the still handsome features of a man in his sixties. The thick head of wavy hair, combed straight back, was grayer than it appeared in the business magazine photo. In general Donatelli had aged well. He was still trim, and in the expensive-looking pale blue running suit and New Balance running shoes he looked as if he worked at keeping fit.

Cousin Antonio was the exact opposite. He was short and squat, with a shaved head and watchful eyes set in a face that looked as if it had been used for a punching bag. The nose was broken, the ears cauliflowered and the sallow skin covered with a lacework of scars. He was dressed in a black shirt and black slacks. He had reappeared carrying a tray with two brandy glasses and Austin's wallet on it. The waiter image was diminished somehow by the shotgun strapped onto his shoulder.

"Grappa," Donatelli said. "It will burn the dampness from our bones."

Austin tucked the billfold back into his pocket and tried the liquor. The Italian firewater seared Austin's throat. It felt good

Donatelli took a sip and said, "How did you find me here, Mr. Austin? I left strict instructions with my office not to tell anyone where I was."

"They said at the restaurant that you were on the island."

The older man smiled. "So much for my security measures." Donatelli took another sip and stared silently into the fire. After a minute he affixed Austin with, his penetrating eyes. "It wasn't a robbery," he said flatly.

"Did the newspaper get it wrong?"

"I called it that for convenience. In a robbery the thieves take something. These thieves took nothing except lives." With a sharp memory for detail and touches of humor, Donatelli related the events of that memorable night in 1956. Even after all these years his voice trembled during his description of the shifting of the dying ship as he made his way deeper in the flooded darkness. He told about the murder of the armored truck guards, his flight, and his eventual rescue. "You said the truck carried a stone," he mused "Why would people kill over a stone, Mr. Austin?"