White Death - Cussler Clive - Страница 43

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Home is the sailor, home from sea.

Like Austin himself, his house was a study in contrasts. He was a man of action whose physical strength, courage and quickness made him a force to be reckoned with. Yet he possessed a cool intellect, and he often drew inspiration from the great minds of centuries past. His work often involved the latest in high-tech gadgets, but his respect for the past was crystallized in the brace of dueling pistols that hung over his fireplace. It was part of a collection of more than two hun- dred sets, to which he was always adding, despite the limitations of a government salary.

The dichotomy in his personality was reflected in the comfortable dark-wood Colonial furniture that contrasted with the plain white walls, like those in a New York art gallery, that were hung with con- temporary originals. His extensive bookshelves groaned under the weight of hundreds of books that included first editions of Joseph Conrad and Herman Melville, and well-worn volumes containing the writings of the great philosophers. While he could spend hours studying the works and wisdom of Plato and Kant, his extensive music library was heavy on progressive jazz. Curiously, there was lit- tle to indicate that he spent most of his working days on or under the sea, except for a primitive painting of a clipper ship and a few other sailing vessels, a photo of his catboat under full sail and a glass- encased model of his racing hydroplane.

Austin had lovingly converted the boathouse into a residence, doing much of the work himself. His assignments for NUMA, and before that for the CIA, took him all over the globe. But when his work was done, he could always return to his safe harbor, drop sail and throw the anchor over the side. All that was needed to make the nautical analogy complete, he reflected, was a ration of grog.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of dark rum and Jamaican ginger beer. The ice tinkled pleasantly in his glass as he threw the doors open to release the musty smell. He went out onto the deck, where he filled his lungs with the fresh river air and surveyed the slow-moving Potomac in the vanishing light. Nothing had changed. The river was as beautiful and serene as ever.

He stretched out in a wood-slatted Adirondack chair, lay back and stared at the sky as if the stars could tell him what was behind the events of the last few days. His misadventures in the Faroe Islands and in Copenhagen would have been the stuff of dreams if not for the itch on his chest where the knife wound was healing and the ten- der swelling under his hair where a club had connected with his nog- mn. He could draw a straight line from the sabotage of the SOS ship to the attack on a quiet Copenhagen street. The dark impulses that had inspired the sabotage of the SOS ship were obviously a means to an end. Simply put, someone wanted SOS out of the picture. When Austin had gotten nosey, he'd become a target, first in Skaalshavn and later in Copenhagen.

The situation could be summed up in a simple equation: When- ever someone got too close to a company called Oceanus, the results could be disastrous. His thoughts drifted back to the Faroe Islands fish farm and the thing in the fish tank that had scared the hell out of him. A miasma of pure evil seemed to hang over the Oceanus op- eration. What had Jorgensen said? Unholy. Then there was the Basque tycoon, Balthazar Aguirrez, and his Quixotic quest. What was that all about?

Austin went over the events of the past several days in his mind until he felt his eyelids drooping. He downed the last of his drink, climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the turret surmounting the mansard roof, and turned in. He slept soundly and was up and dressed early the next morning, refreshed by a night's sleep and stim- ulated by a pot of strong Kona coffee. He telephoned an old friend at the CIA to make sure he would be in, then called his NUMA of- fice to say he'd be late.

Unlike his colleague Dirk Pitt, who collected antique autos and relished driving them, Austin was indifferent when it came to ground transportation. Driving a sedan from the NUMA car pool, nondescript except for its turquoise color, he headed to Langley, along a route he knew well from his days with the CIA, and parked his car next to dozens of other government vehicles. Security at the sprawl- ing complex was tighter since 9/11.

Herinan Perez, whom he had called earlier, was waiting in the vis- itors' area. Perez was a slightly built man with an olive complexion and dark-brown eyes that matched his thinning hair. Perez helped speed the check-in process through security and led Austin through the labyrinth of corridors to an office uncluttered by a scrap of paper. The only objects on the desktop were a computer monitor, a tele- phone and a photo of an attractive woman and two cute children.

"Kurt, it's great to see you!" Perez said, motioning for Austin to sit down. "Thinking of jumping Sandecker's ship to come back into the Company? We'd love to have you. The cloak-and-dagger stuff you're so good at has become respectable at Langley once again."

"Admiral Sandecker might have something to say about that. But I'll have to admit that I still get misty-eyed when I think about the fun we had on our last job."

"The secret missile retrieval job we did off Gibraltar," Perez said with a boyish grin. "Oh boy, that was something."

"I was thinking about that on the drive over this morning. How long has it been?"

"Too damned long. You know something, Kurt, I still hear little flamenco dancers in my head whenever I drink Spanish wine." A dreamy look came into Perez's face. "By God, we had some good times, didn't we?"

Austin nodded in agreement. "The world has changed a lot since then."

Perez laughed in reply. "Not for you, old pal! Hell, I read about that amazing rescue you pulled off in the Faroe Islands. You haven't changed a bit, you old sea dog. Still the same swashbuckling Austin."

Austin groaned. "These days, for every minute swashing buckles, I spend an hour at my desk dealing with reports."

"I hear you! I could do without the paperwork, although I've got- ten to like my nine-to-five schedule since I became a father. Two kids, would you believe it? Being a desk jockey isn't all bad. You might want to try it."

"No, thanks. I'd rather have my eyeballs tattooed."

Perez laughed. "Well, you didn't come here to talk about the good ol' days. You said on the phone that you were looking for background info on Balthazar Aguirrez. What's your interest in him, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Not at all. I ran into Aguirrez in the Faroe Islands. He seemed like a fascinating character. I know he's a shipbuilding magnate, but I suspected there was more to him than meets the eye."

"You met him?"

"He was fishing. So was I."

"I should have known," Perez said. "Trouble attracts trouble."

"Why is he trouble?"

"What do you know about the Basque separatist movement?"

"It's been around a long time. Every so often, Basque terrorists blow up a public building or assassinate an innocent government of- ficial."

"That pretty much sums it up," Perez said. "There's been talk for decades of a separate Basque state that would straddle Spain and France. The most radical separatist group, ETA, started fighting for an autonomous Basque state in 1968. When Franco died in 1975, the new Spanish government gave the Basques more political power, but the ETA wants the whole enchilada. They've killed more than eight hundred people since taking up the cause. Anyone who is not on their side is an enemy."

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