Spartan Gold - Cussler Clive - Страница 56
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“Almost there,” Sam called and stretched his free hand before him.
The retching and coughing were louder now, seemingly all around them. A voice shouted something in Russian, followed by a rasped reply in English: “Back . . . go back . . . !”
Sam tripped and fell, taking Remi down with him. They got back to their feet and kept going. His groping hand bumped into something hot and he jerked it back. He dropped to his knees and pulled Remi down beside him. Somewhere close by, multiple boots crunched on gravel. A flashlight beam cut through the smoke, then disappeared.
“What’s going on?” Remi whispered.
In response, Sam gave the ore cart a quick rap with his knuckles. “Take off the coat.” She did so. Sam shoved his hands into the sleeves from the outside in, then twisted the body of the jacket into a ball. “Oven mitts,” he explained.
Now Remi caught on: “Depth charge?”
“You got it.”
“Clever boy.”
“Once I get it rolling, you push me from behind.”
“Okay.”
Hunched over, Sam moved around to the other side of the cart, planted his feet wide, then placed his gloved hands against the steel side and shoved. The cart didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing. He heard a metallic click-click, then Remi’s whispered voice: “Wheel brake was on. Try again.”
Sam took a deep breath, set his jaw, and shoved. With a steel-on-steel shriek, the cart lurched forward. The crack of a gunshot echoed down the tunnel, but Sam ignored it and kept going. He passed Remi and she fell in behind him, hands pressed against his lower back. The cart quickly picked up speed. Pushed by the breeze, the flames and smoke streamed backward over their heads like a comet’s tail.
Suddenly the smoke thinned out. The tunnel entrance loomed before them, not twenty feet away. “Braking,” Sam shouted and leaned backward, digging his heels into the gravel ballast. Remi, her hands tight around his belt, did the same. Their combined weight began to slow the cart. The opening rushed toward them. Ten feet . . . five feet . . . Sam made a quick mental calculation, decided the momentum was right, then let go. They stumbled backward together, landed in a heap, and looked up just in time to see the flaming cart tip ever so gently over the lip of the entrance.
There were three seconds of silence, then a thunderous crash.
Sam and Remi crawled on hands and knees to the entrance and looked over the edge. Already half engulfed in flames, the patrol boat was listing heavily to port as water bubbled up through a crater in the afterdeck. After a few seconds a pair of heads bobbed to the surface; one began swimming away, but the other remained motionless. The boat dipped stern first below the surface and slid from view.
“I think that’s called a bull’s-eye,” Remi said, then dropped to her belly and let out an exhausted sigh. Sam did the same. Above their heads black smoke spewed from the tunnel and began drifting away through the bridge.
“Well,” Sam said, “I’d say we’ve thoroughly worn out our welcome. Shall we call it a night?”
“Yes, please.”
CHAPTER 43
MONACO
Yvette Fournier-Desmarais’s hazel eyes stared over the rim of her poised coffee cup as she listened intently to Sam recount their adventure on Elba. He’d left out any mention of Umberto’s near betrayal of them to Kholkov.
“After that,” Sam finished, “we drove to Nisporto, then made our way back to the mainland.”
“Amazing,” Yvette said. “You two certainly know how to live up to your reputations.”
It was early morning and the three of them sat on the patio of Yvette’s villa overlooking Point de la Veille. The sun sparkled off the flat calm waters of the Mediterranean.
After watching Bondaruk’s patrol boat sink into the depths below the erosion bridge Sam and Remi had climbed down the spike ladder and slipped into the water. They found a pair of orange kapok life jackets that had escaped the boat’s demise, latched on to them, and let the current carry them south along the coast. As the sun rose over the horizon they drifted along, watching plumes of black smoke gather over Bondaruk’s estate and listening as the sirens of the fire engines grew louder. Several times to the north they saw more Bondaruk patrol boats, but the crews focused their attention on the cliffs beneath the estate.
An hour after they went into the water they found themselves off the beaches north of Balaclava and they paddled ashore and made their way into town, and two hours after their phone call to Selma they were sitting in the back of a limousine and on their way to Kerch, a hundred miles up the coast on the Sea of Azov. Waiting there was a courier who upon Selma’s orders had gathered their passports, credit cards, and luggage from their hotel in Yevpatoria. An hour after that they were aboard a private charter headed for Istanbul.
Knowing they were in a holding pattern until Selma could decipher the printout they’d stolen from Bondaruk’s lab, and knowing they needed a safe place to regroup, they’d called Yvette, who’d happily and immediately dispatched Langdon, her ex-SAS bodyguard, aboard her Gulfstream to collect them.
“Well, in all fairness I have to tell you: Umberto confessed everything,” Yvette now said. “He was quite ashamed of himself.”
“He redeemed himself,” Remi said. “In spades.”
“I agree. I told him that if the Fargos forgave, so did I.”
Sam asked, “I’m curious: What happened to Carmine Bianco?”
“Who?”
“The Corsican mobster-slash-Elban cop.”
“Ah, him . . . I believe he’s now the guest of the Italian government. Something about attempted murder.”
Sam and Remi laughed.
“So,” Yvette said, “Laurent’s diary is proving helpful?”
“And a challenge,” Remi replied. “The code he used is complex and layered, but if anyone can puzzle it out, it’s Selma.” As soon as they’d arrived at the villa they faxed the printout to Selma.
Langdon appeared with a fresh carafe of coffee and refilled everyone’s cups. Sam asked, “So, Langdon, what’s the answer?”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Did she have the good sense to say yes?”
Langdon cleared his throat and pursed his lips.
Yvette said, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Langdon . . .” To Sam and Remi: “He’s so reserved, so proper. Langdon, you’re allowed to share good news, you know. Go on, tell them.”
Langdon allowed his mouth to form the barest of smiles and said, “Yes, sir, she agreed to marry me.”
“Congratulations.”
Remi raised her coffee cup. “To the groom to be.”
The three of them toasted Langdon, whose face turned a deep shade of red. He nodded his thanks and murmured, “Madam, if there’s nothing else . . .”
“Go on, Langdon, before you have a stroke.”
Langdon disappeared.
“Unfortunately, this means I’ll be losing him,” Yvette said. “He’ll be a kept man now. A gigolo, if you will.”
“Not a bad job if you can get it,” Sam said.
Remi lightly punched him on the biceps. “Mind your manners, Fargo.”
“I’m just saying, there are worse jobs out there.”
“Enough.”
They chatted and drank coffee until Langdon returned thirty minutes later. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, Mrs. Wondrash is calling for you.”
They excused themselves and followed Langdon down to the study. Yvette’s MacBook Air sat open on a mahogany desk overlooking the garden. Langdon had already arranged a pair of club chairs before the laptop. Once they were seated, he left and closed the door behind him.
The laptop’s screen displayed Selma’s workroom back in La Jolla. “Selma, are you there?” Sam called.
Pete Jeffcoat’s tanned face appeared before the camera. He smiled at them. “Hi, Sam. Hi, Remi.”
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