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

According to the map, they were within minutes of the access tunnel to the glacial observatory. Eventually, they came to a massive steel door that was similar to the sluice gates they had seen in other tunnels. This one was different from the others they had encountered. The thick steel was peeled back like the skin of an orange.

Zavala went over and gingerly touched the twisted steel. "This must be the door that Fauchard's goon blew off its hinges."

Austin borrowed the map and pointed to a tunnel line. "We're here," he said. "We go through the door and take a right and the observatory is about a half a mile walk. We'd better stay alert and keep the noise down."

"I'll do my best to keep my teeth from chattering, but it won't be easy."

Their lighthearted bantering was deceptive. Both men were well aware of the potential danger they faced, and their concern was evident in the care they used to check their firearms. As they entered the main tunnel, Austin gave Zavala a whispered description of the lab setup. He told him about the lab buildings, then the staircase leading to the observatory tunnel and the ice chamber where Jules Fauchard was entombed.

They were nearing the lab trailers when Zavala started limping again. His injured knee was giving him trouble. He told Austin to go ahead, and he'd catch up in a minute. Austin thought about checking out the trailers, but the windows were dark and he assumed that Emil and his men were in the observatory itself. He learned that he was wrong when a door swung quietly open behind him and a man's voice told him in French to get his hands in the air. Then he was ordered to turn around, slowly.

In the murky light, Austin could make out a hulking figure. Although the tunnel was dim, stray shafts of light reflected off the gun pointed in his direction.

"Hello," Sebastian said in a pleasant voice. "Master Emil has been waiting for you."

THE ROADSIDE BISTRO was like a desert watering hole to the Trouts, who had been on the go for most of the day. They beat a path to the door of the converted farmhouse and were soon seated in a dining room that overlooked a formal flower garden. Although the stop was motivated by hunger and thirst, it proved to be a stroke of luck. Not only was the food excellent, the bistro's handsome young owner was the equivalent of a chamber of commerce information booth.

He overheard Paul and Gamay speaking English and he came over to their table to introduce himself. His name was Bertrand, "Bert" for short, and he had been a chef in New York City for a few years before returning to France to open his own place. He was pleased at the chance to talk American English and they answered his queries about the States with good-natured patience. As a Jets fan, he was particularly interested in football. As a Frenchman, he was intrigued as well by Gamay and her unusual name.

"C'est belle," he said. "C'est tres belle."

"My father's idea," she explained. "He was a wine connoisseur, and the color of my hair reminded him of the grape of Beaujolais."

Bert's appreciative eyes took in Camay's long swept-up coif and her flashing smile. "Your father was a lucky man to have such a lovely daughter. And you, Monsieur Trout, are fortunate to have a beautiful wife."

"Thank you," Paul said, putting his arm around Gamay's shoulder in an unmistakable male gesture that said, You can look but don't touch.

Bert smiled in understanding as the subtle message sunk in and again became the professional host. "Are you here on business or for pleasure?"

"A bit of both," Gamay replied.

"We own a small chain of wine shops in the Washington area," Paul explained, using the cover story he and Gamay had cooked up. He handed Bert one of the business cards he and Gamay had hastily printed up at an airport copy shop during they- Paris stopover. "As we travel about, we like to keep an eye out for small vineyards that might be able to offer something special for our discerning customers."

Bert clapped his hands as if in light applause. "You and your wife have come to the right place, Monsieur Trout. The wine you're drinking is from an estate not far from here. I can get you an introduction to the owner."

Gamay took a sip from her glass. "A robust red. Precocious and lively. It has high notes of raspberry."

"There's a hint of mischievousness to it that I like," Paul said. "Combined with low notes of pepper."

Both Trouts tended toward microbrewery beer, and their knowledge of wine was gleaned mostly from the labels, but Bert nodded sagely. "You are true wine aficionados."

"Thank you," Gamay said. "Do you have any other vineyard suggestions?"

"Oui, Madame Trout. Many." Bert jotted down several names on a napkin, which Paul tucked into his pocket.

"Someone mentioned another vineyard," Gamay said. "What was that name, dear?"

"Fauchard?" Paul said.

"That's it." She turned back to Bertrand. "Do you carry the Fauchard label?"

"Mon Dieu. I wish I did. It's a superb wine. Their production is very limited and their wine is bought by a select group of wealthy people, mostly Europeans and rich Americans. Even if I could get it, the wine is much too expensive for my customers. We're talking a thousand dollars a bottle."

"Really?" Gamay said. "We'd love to visit the Fauchard estate and see what sort of grapes can fetch prices like that."

Bert hesitated and a frown came to his handsome face. "It's not far from here, but the Fauchards are ... how can I put it? Odd."

"In what way?"

"Not very friendly. Nobody sees them." He spread his hands. "They are an old family and there are stories."

"What sort of stories?"

"Old wives' tales. Farmers can be superstitious. They say the Fauchards are sang sues Bloodsuckers."

"You mean vampires?" Gamay said with a smile.

"Oui." Bert laughed and said, "I think they simply have so much money they are always afraid people will steal it. They are not typical of the people who live here. We are very friendly. I hope the Fauchards don't give you the wrong impression."

"That would be impossible after enjoying your fine food and hospitality," she said with a sly smile.

Bert beamed with pleasure and, using another napkin, wrote down

directions to the Fauchard estate. They could get a glimpse of the vineyards, he said, but the no trespassing signs will warn them when they get closer to the estate. They thanked him, exchanged hugs and cheek busses in the French manner and got back in their car.

Gamay broke into laughter. "A mischievous wine? I can't believe you said that."

"I'd rather have a mischievous wine than a precocious vintage," Paul said with a haughty sniff.

"You must admit it had high notes of raspberry," she said. "And low notes of pepper, too," Paul replied. "I don't think Bert noticed our viticultural pretensions. He was fixated on you. "You 'ave a beeyootiful wife," " Trout said in an accent like that of the old film star Charles Boyer.

"I think he was quite charming," Gamay said with a pout. "So do I, and he was completely right about how lucky I am." "That's more like it," she said. She consulted the map Bert had drawn on the napkin. "There's a turnoff that goes to the chateau about ten miles from here."

"Bert made it sound like Castle Dracula," Paul said. "From what Kurt told us, Madame Fauchard makes Dracula look like Mother Teresa."