Clive Cussler - Treasure

"What are your plans for my ship?" demanded Collins, "You owe me the.

answer to that question."

"Yes, of course, I owe you that," Ammar muttered automatically, his mind already training on another subject. "By this time tomorrow evening, international news services will report that the Lady Flamborough has been posted missing and presumed lost with all passengers and crew in two hundred fathoms of water."

"Did you hear something, Carlos?" the old fisherman asked as he gripped the worn spokes on the wheel of an ancient fishing boat.

The younger man, who was his son, cupped his ears and peered into the darkness beyond the bow. "You have better ears than mine, Papa. All I hear is our engine."

"I thought I heard someone, like a woman screaming for help.

The son paused, listened again and then shrugged. "Sorry, I still hear nothing."

"It was there." Luiz Chavez rubbed his grizzled beard on a sleeve and then pulled the throttle on idle. "I wasn't dreaming."

Chavez was in a hearty mood. The fish catch had been good. The holds were only half-full, but the nets had pwiea in a quality and variety that would bring top prices from the chefs of the hotel and resort restaurants. The six bottles of beer that were sloshing in his stomach didn't hurt his jolly disposition either.

"Papa, I see something in the water."

"Where?"

Carlos pointed. "Off the port bow. Looks like pieces of a boat.

The old fisherman's eyes were not so sharp at night any more. He squinted and gazed in the direction his son was pointing. Then the running lights began to pick out scattered bits of wreckage. He recognized the bright white paint and varnished debris as coming from a yacht. An explosion, or perhaps a collision, he thought. He settled on a collision. The nearest lights of the port were only two kilometers away. An explosion would have been seen and heard. He saw no sign of navigation lights from rescue boats converging in the channel.

The boat was entering the debris field when his ears caught it again.

What he had thought was a scream now sounded like sobbing. And it came from close by.

"Get Raul, Justino and Manuel from the galley. Quickly. Tell them to make ready to go in the water after survivors."

The boy rushed off as Chavez set the gear lever to "Stop."

He stepped out of the wheelhouse and snapped on a spotlight and slowly swept its beam across the water.

He spotted two huddled shapes lying half across a small splintered section of teak decking and half in the water less than twenty meters away. One, a man, appeared inert. The other, a woman, her face like chalk, stared into the light and frantically waved. Then suddenly, she began yelling hysterically and thrashing at the water.

"Hold on!" Chavez shouted. "Don't panic. We're coming for you."

Chavez turned at the sound of running feet behind him. His crew had rushed out of the deckhouse and quickly crowded around him.

"Can you make anything out?" asked Luis.

"Two survivors floating on some wreckage. Get ready to pull them on board. One of you might have to go in the water and give them a hand."

"No one is going in the water tonight," said one of the crew, his face turning pale.

Chavez turned back to the survivors just as the woman let out a terrified shriek. His heart turned to ice as he saw the tall fin, the ugly head with the ink-spot eye, whipping back and forth with its jaws locked around the woman's lower legs.

"Adored Mary, Mother of Jesus!" muttered Luis, crossing himself as fast as his hand could move.

Chavez shuddered but could not pull his eyes away as the shark draggtd the woman off farther into the water. Other sharks circled, drawn by the blood, bumping against the shattered deck until the body of the man rolled off. One of the fishermen turned and vomited over the side as the scream turned to an ungodly gurgling noise.

Then the night fell silent.

Less than an hour later, Colonel Jos6 Rojas, Uruguayan Chief Coordinator for Special Security, stood ramrod straight in front of a group of officers in battle dress. He had trained with the British Grenadier Guards after graduating from his country's military school, and he had taken up their antiquated habit of carrying a swagger stick.

He stood over a table containing a model diorama of the Punta del Este waterfront and addressed the assembled men. "We will organize into three roving teams to patrol the docks on rotating eight-hour shifts," he began while dramatically slapping the stick in the palm of one hand.

"Our mission is to stand on constant alert as a backup force in the event of a terrorist attack. I realize it's difficult for you to look inconspicuous, but try anyway. Stay in the shadows at night and off the main thoroughfares by day. We don't want to frighten the tourists into thinking Uruguay is an armed state. any questions?"

Lieutenant Eduardo Vazquez raised a hand. "Colonel?"

"Vazquez?"

"If we see someone who looks suspicious, what should we do?"

"You do nothing except report him. He'll probably Turn out to be one of the international security agents."

"What if he appears to be armed?"

Rojas sighed. "Then you'll know he's a security agent. Leave international incidents to the diplomats. Is everyone clear?"

No hands went up.

Rojas dismissed the men and walked to his temporary office in the Harbor Master's building. He stopped at a coffee machine to pour a cup when his aide approached.

"Captain Flores in Naval Affairs asked if you could meet him downstairs."

"Did he say why?"

"Only that it was urgent."

Rojas didn't want to spill his coffee, so he took the elevator instead of the stairs. Flores, impeccable in a white navy dress uniform, greeted him on the first floor but offered no explanations as he escorted Rojas across the street to a large shed that housed the coastal rescue boats. Inside, a group of men were examining several mangled fragments that looked to the Colonel as if they came from a boat.

Captain Flores introduced him to Chavez and his son. "These fishermen have just brought in this wreckage, which they discovered in the channel," he explained. "They say it looked to them like a yacht had been crushed in a collision with a large ship."

"Why should a yachting accident concern special security?"

asked Rojas.

The Harbor Master, a man with cropped hair and a bristling mustache, spoke up. "It may well be a disaster that could cast a cloud on the economic summit." He paused and added, Rescue craft are on the scene now. So far no survivors have been found."

"Have you identified the yacht?"

"One of the scraps Mr. Chavez and his crew fished out of the water bears a nameplate. The craft was called the Lola."

Rojas shook his head. "I'm a soldier. Pleasure boats are not familiar.

Is the name supposed to mean something to me?"

"The yacht was named for the wife of Victor Rivera," answered Flores.

"You know him?"

Rojas stiffened. "I am acquainted with the Speaker of our Chamber of Deputies. The yacht was his?"

Registered in his name," Flores nodded. 'We've already contacted his secretary at her home. Gave her no information of course. Merely inquired as to Mr. Rivera's whereabouts' She said he was on board his yacht hosting a party for Argentinean and Brazilian diplomats."

"How many?" Rojas inquired, a fear growing within him.

"Rivera and his wife, twenty-three guests and five crew members. Thirty in all."

"Names?"

"The secretary did not have the guest list in front of her. I've taken the liberty of sending my aide to Rivera's headquarters for a copy."

"I think it best if I take command of the investigation from this point," stated Rojas officially.

"The Navy stands ready to offer every assistance," said Flores, happy to wash his hands of any authority.