Lost City - Cussler Clive (читать книги полные TXT) 📗

"It's very hard to keep the organisms alive away from their natural habitat. That's why they're taking down some of the columns. Only a small percentage of the harvest will be useful by the time we get back to land."

"Did you say land}" Trout said.

"Yes, the collected specimens are ultimately processed in a facility located on an island. We make periodic trips to unload the tanks. I'm not sure where it is."

MacLean saw the guard looking at them. "Sorry. Our babysitter seems to have stirred from his lethargy. We'll have to continue our discussion later."

"Quickly tell me about the island. It may be our only chance to escape."

"Escape? There's no hope of escape."

"There's always hope. What's it like on this island?"

MacLean saw the guard walking toward them and lowered his voice, making his words sound even more ominous. "It's worse than anything Dante could have imagined."

AS AUSTIN'S GAZE swept the steep walls and sturdy battlements that enclosed the Fauchard chateau, he felt an enormous respect for the artisans who had layered the heavy blocks into place. His admiration was tempered by the knowledge that the efficient killing machine those long-dead craftsmen had built to keep attackers at bay worked equally well to prevent those inside from getting out.

"Well," Skye said. "What do you think?"

"If Alcatraz were built on land, it would look something like this."

"Then what do we do?"

He hooked his arm in hers. "We continue our stroll."

After they had discovered the portcullis closed and their car gone, Austin and Skye had sauntered around the courtyard perimeter like tourists on a holiday. From time to time, they would stop and chat before ambling on. The casual veneer was meant to deceive. Austin hoped that anyone watching would think they were completely at ease.

As they walked, Austin's coral-blue eyes probed the enclosure for weaknesses. His brain cataloged every minute detail. By the time

they had circled the courtyard and returned to their starting point, he could have drawn an accurate diagram of the chateau complex from memory.

Skye stopped and rattled a wrought-iron gate blocking a narrow stairway to the battlements. It was bolted shut. "We're going to need wings to get over these walls," she said.

"My wings are at the dry cleaner's," Austin replied. "We'll have to think of something else. Let's go back inside and nose around."

Emil Fauchard greeted them on the terrace. He flashed his toothy smile and said, "Did you have a pleasant tour of the chateau?"

"They don't build them like this anymore," Austin said. "By the way, we noticed our car was gone."

"Oh yes, we moved it out of the way to make room for our arriving guests. The keys were in the ignition. We'll pull it around when you're ready to leave. I hope you don't mind."

"Not all," Austin said with a forced grin. "Saves me the trouble of doing it myself."

"Splendid. Let's go inside then. The guests will be arriving soon." Emil ushered them back into the chateau and up the wide staircase in the veranda to the second floor and showed them to adjoining guest rooms. Austin's room was actually a suite with bedroom, bath and sitting area, decorated in Baroque, heavy on the scarlet plush and gilt, like a Victorian brothel.

His costume was laid out on the canopied bed. The costume fit well except for snugness around his broad shoulders. After glancing at himself in a full-length mirror, he knocked on the door connecting his suite to Skye's. The door opened partway and Skye poked her head through. She broke into laughter when she saw Austin wearing the black-and-white-checked costume and belled cap of a court jester.

"Madame Fauchard has more of a sense of humor than I gave her credit for," she said.

"My teachers always said I was the class clown. Let's see how you look."

Skye stepped into Austin's room and spun around slowly like a fashion model on a runway. She was dressed in a tight-fitting black leotard that showed off every curve and mound of her figure. Her feet and hands were encased in furry slippers and gloves. Decorating her hair was a headband that had a pair of large pointed ears attached to it.

"What do you think?" she said, pirouetting once more.

Austin looked at Skye with an unabashed male appreciation that was just short of lust. "I believe you're what my grandfather used to call 'the cat's meow." "

There was a light knock at the door. It was the bullet-head servant Marcel. He leered at Skye like a lion eyeing a tasty wildebeest, then his small eyes took in Austin's costume and his lips curled in a smile of unmistakable contempt.

"The guests are arriving," Marcel said in a voice like gravel sliding off a shovel. "Madame Fauchard would like you to follow me to the armory for cocktails and dinner." His gangsterish intonation was strangely at odds with his butler's formality.

Austin and his feline companion donned their black velvet masks and followed the burly servant down to the first floor and through the maze of corridors. They could hear voices and laughter long before they stepped into the armory. About two dozen men and women dressed in fantastic costumes milled around a bar that had been set up in front of a display of spiked maces. Servants who looked like clones of Marcel threaded their way through the crowd carrying trays of caviar and champagne. A string quartet dressed as rodents was playing background music.

Austin snatched two flutes of bubbly from a passing tray and offered one to Skye. Then they found a vantage point under the lances of the mounted knight display where they could sip their champagne

and watch the crowd. The guests were equally divided between men and women, although it was hard to tell because of the variety of costumes.

Austin was trying to figure out the party's theme when a portly black bird approached, weaving like a ship in a heavy sea. The bird wobbled on its yellow legs and leaned forward, its shiny black beak dangerously close to Austin's eye, and drunkenly intoned in a slurred British accent, "Once upon a midnight dreary ... damn, how does the rest of it go?"

Nothing harder to understand than an upper-class Brit with a snootful of booze, Austin thought. He picked up the rest of the verse, "while I pondered, weak and weary ..."

The bird clapped its wings together, and then plucked a champagne glass from a passing tray. The long beak got in the way when he tried to drink so he pushed it up onto his forehead. The florid, jowly face hidden behind the beak reminded Austin of cartoons he had seen of the English symbol, John Bull.

"Always a pleasure to meet a lit' rate gen'lman," the bird said. Austin introduced Skye and himself. The bird extended a winged hand. "I'm called "Nevermore," for the purposes of tonight's festivities, but I go by the name of Cavendish when I'm not running around as Poe's morose bird. Lord Cavendish, which shows you the sorry state of our once proud empire when an old sot like me is made a knight. Pardon, I see my glass is empty. Never more, old chap." He belched loudly and staggered off in pursuit of another glass of champagne.

Edgar Allan Poe. Of course.

Cavendish was a rather drunken Raven. Skye personified The Blac Cat. Austin was the jester from The Cask of Amontillado.

Austin studied his fellow guests. He saw a corpselike woman wearing a soiled and bloodied white shroud. The Fall of the House of Usher. Another woman wore a garment covered with miniature