Clive Cussler: The Tombs

“I didn’t design them. If we put a bullet through the gas tank so the gas starts pouring out onto the ground, we might cause them some anxiety at least.”

“Starting our house on fire would cause me some anxiety.”

“I know,” he said. “Just a thought.”

She sighed, picked up the rifle, and moved cautiously to the back end of the roof, where the men below would be least likely to anticipate her appearance. She stood, shouldered the rifle, and sidestepped to the edge. As soon as she could see downward she fired and then instantly stepped back out of sight. Within a second or two, there were loud shouts and bursts of gunfire into the sky.

“You must have hit it.”

“I should hope so. It’s the size of a beer barrel.” She walked to the opposite side of the roof, took a stance like the one she had used a moment ago, sidestepped into sight, fired, and sidestepped back. The air filled with more shouts of dismay and random shots.

Then, coming from the opposite side, the evening air seemed to fill with bright gasoline flames as the truck’s gas tank emptied into the fire. There was a loud boom as it exploded.

* * *

“NO!” On the deck of the Ibiza , Arpad Bako leapt up from his chair, knocked his drink over, causing the glass to roll toward the scuppers. “No!” he shouted. “What are they doing? What can they be thinking?”

Le Clerc looked at Goldfish Point calmly. “They could be burning the Fargos out. It’s crude, but it usually works. I can’t quite tell what’s burning.”

“There could be treasure in that house!” Bako shouted. “Priceless artifacts could be melting into a puddle of gold while we sit here. Ancient jewels the Caesars wore could be destroyed.”

Poliakoff sat calmly. “Everything we know says that the treasures are in museums for now. The only way we’ll ever get any of it is if we take Remi Fargo back to trade for it. This time, I’ll send Fargo a gift-wrapped box with one of her fingers. Sam Fargo made me burn down my own house, did you know that? Once I knew the police and firefighters were on their way, I couldn’t let them find a cellar full of smuggled drugs. Two days later my wife drove into the courtyard with my children, saw the pile of wreckage, and told the driver to turn around and head back to Moscow. Just for making me live through that moment, Fargo should be spared no form of pain. I hope they are burning his house down.”

Le Clerc smiled slyly. “She’s still not talking to you, Sergei? Sleeping alone doesn’t agree with you.”

“That’s none of your business,” said Poliakoff. He puffed hard on his cigar, then said, “They’re speeding this up. If they don’t get the Fargos out of that house soon, we’ll have police and firemen rushing there and patrol boats out here.”

Bako was at the rail, holding the powerful binoculars on the house. “The flames are coming from the two cherry pickers. The bodies of the trucks are on fire and one of them blew up.” As he watched, the second truck’s gas tank flared and knocked over the truck, leaving it in flames. The boom of the explosion reached the boat a second later. “Both of them blew up.”

Le Clerc said, “You were perceptive, Arpad. It’s just like Attila attacking a castle. This time, the defenders set fire to the siege engines.”

“It’s crazy!” Bako shouted. “What are people like them doing with an arsenal in their house?”

“I suppose if a person finds lots of treasures, other people get jealous and try to kidnap them.”

Poliakoff stood too, picked up the radio that sat on the table beside his drink, pressed a button, and said something in Russian over the static.

Bako whirled and reached for the radio. “No!” he shouted. “Don’t tell our own men to run away. We’re so close! The Fargos and their servants are huddled on the top floor, cowering in fear.”

Poliakoff stiff-armed Bako, who stopped and bent over, trying to recover from the hand that had compressed his chest and deprived him of breath. “I’m just checking with my headman to account for all the delay. This should have taken five minutes.”

A staticky voice blurted something on the other end. And Poliakoff said in Russian, “Kotzov! What’s causing the delay?”

The voice said, “They’re on the fourth floor, but it’s been a gun battle for every inch. We’ve got dead men here and quite a few hurt.”

“Give me your best advice.”

“I’d rather not do that, sir.”

“That tells me what I need to know. Collect the dead and wounded. Leave no one behind. We’ll take everyone on the boats. Get them to the beach now. We’re headed in to anchor.”

Poliakoff switched channels. “Stop the fireworks. Cut the raft loose and head for shore. We’re picking up our men off the beach with the launches. Leave now.”

He shouted up the steps to the man at the helm. “Weigh anchor and head for the beach. We’ll be taking all the men with us to Mexico.”

“No!” shouted Bako. “Don’t do this. Don’t be a coward.”

Poliakoff turned to face Bako and stood very close to him. His eyes seemed to glint in the flickering light from shore.

Bako looked away, threw his cigar in the water, and sat down on the end of his chair. He held his head in his hands. The anchor chain came up, and they all felt the vibration as the motor yacht’s oversize engines moved it forward, slowly at first, and then gaining speed as it headed in toward shore.

* * *

THE SILENCE in the house was almost as shocking as the noise had been. Sam and Remi moved to the edge of the roof and looked down at their lawn. Men in black clothes hurried off into the night, carrying casualties on makeshift stretchers consisting of blankets wrapped around the sections of extension ladders or lifting them in over-the-shoulder fireman’s carries. The truck that had supported the cherry picker lay on its side, charred and smoking.

“They seem to be leaving,” said Remi.

“It looks that way,” Sam said. “But we’ll see.”

She looked at him. “You’re so cautious.”

He shrugged and put his arm around her. “Perhaps you’ve heard of a famous siege. When the attackers got really tired of their failure to breach the walls, one really smart one said, ‘Why don’t we pretend we’re going back to our ships? We’ll leave a—’”

“Big wooden horse full of soldiers. Are you saying this is the Trojan War? Aren’t we taking ourselves a little seriously?”

“I’m just saying I’m not going down there until I can see at least five police cars. Make that twenty.”

She looked toward the hotels and the major commercial streets to the south and then pulled his arm to turn him in that direction. She pointed. There was a long line of police cars streaming up La Jolla Boulevard toward Prospect Street with blue, red, and white lights flashing. In a moment, the distant whoop of the sirens reached the rooftop.

They stepped to the ocean side of the house. Out in the bay, they could see the two motor yachts had come in much closer to the shore. They were holding a position just beyond the outer breaks of surf, launching smaller boats to land on the beach.

From the north, beyond La Jolla Cove, came three police boats, scanning the water with the beams of spotlights and then letting them settle on the two yachts. From the south, the direction of San Diego Harbor, came two Coast Guard vessels, each about a hundred fifty feet long, with crew members scrambling to man the deck guns. The Coast Guard vessels moved into position about six hundred feet offshore and remained there in what amounted to a blockade.

“They’re not running,” Remi said.

“No,” said Sam. “They’d be foolish to try that.”