The Storm - Cussler Clive (книга читать онлайн бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗

“You come here for vacation?” the water taxi’s pilot asked, trying to make conversation.

In a white linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, Kurt looked every bit the tourist arriving at an eagerly awaited destination. The taxi driver couldn’t know any different.

“We’re here on business,” he said.

“That’s good,” the man replied. “Lots of business on Male. What kind do you do?”

Kurt thought about that for a second. It was all but impossible to explain exactly what NUMA’s Special Projects Team did since they basically did a little bit of everything. The truth came to him, simple and quick.

“We solve problems,” he said finally.

“Then you come to the wrong place,” the driver said. “Maldives are paradise. No problems here.”

Kurt smiled. He only wished the man was right.

The transit continued, slow and easy, until the buildings of Male began to loom in front of them. The taxi moved through the breakwater and slowed. The turquoise color gave way to clear shallow water with only the slightest hint of blue.

As the boat bumped the dock, the taxi driver cut the throttle and threw a rope to another man onshore.

Kurt stood, tipped the driver and stepped off the small boat. Ahead, on the shore, tourists strolled in the sunlight, moving in and out of the shops of the waterfront. A group of men in bright reflective vests worked on a broken section of concrete, stopping mid-project to lean on their shovels and stare at a rather attractive Polynesian woman who walked by.

Kurt really couldn’t blame them. Her lush black hair draped like ink against a sleeveless white top. Her tan face, high cheekbones and full lips glistened in the sun. And while her legs were covered by conservative gray slacks, Kurt had no doubt they were toned and tan like the rest of her.

She ducked into a jewelry store, and both Kurt and the construction workers went back to their respective tasks.

“You ready?” Kurt said.

“As I’ll ever be,” Joe replied.

Kurt pulled on his pack, and the two men hiked up the dock. Two other figures waited for them: a man of great height, nearly six foot eight, with a stern, intense look securely plastered on his face; and a woman with a kind yet mischievous look on her face, blue-green eyes and slightly curly hair the color of red wine. She stood about five foot ten, but she looked petite by the man’s side.

“Looks like the Trouts beat us here,” Kurt said, pointing them out to Joe.

Paul and Gamay Trout were two of their closest friends and invaluable members of the Special Projects team. Her irrepressible spirit and mischievous nature was the yin to his serious, sensible yang.

“Welcome to paradise,” Gamay said. Originally from Wisconsin, she still spoke with a soft midwestern accent.

“You’re the second person to call it that,” Kurt said.

“It’s in the brochure.”

Kurt hugged her and then shook Paul’s hand. Joe did the same.

“How in the world did you guys get here so fast?”

Gamay smiled. “We had a head start. We were in Thailand, sampling some of the most fantastic food I’ve ever tasted.”

“Lucky you,” Kurt said.

“Do you want to check into the hotel?” Paul asked.

Kurt shook his head. “I want to get a look at the catamaran. They bring it in yet?”

“A rescue boat from the Maldives NDF (National Defense Force) towed it in an hour ago. At our request, they’ve kept it quarantined.”

That was good news. “Then let’s go see what we can find.”

A seven-minute walk took them along the harbor to a jetty manned by a few sailors. Two fast patrol boats were moored just beyond it, while the burned-out hulk of the NUMA catamaran was tied to the dock cleats at its side.

At a small kiosk, Kurt filled out some paperwork and handed over copies of his ID and passport. As they waited for the stamp of approval, Kurt glanced around the dockside and noticed something odd. He kept it to himself for a moment, took his identification back and addressed the man in the uniform.

“Do you speak English?”

“Very much so,” the young man said proudly.

“Tell me,” Kurt continued, “without staring—is there a beautiful brunette in a white blouse watching us from the walkway?”

The guard began to move his head for a better look.

“Without staring,” Kurt reminded him.

He was more cautious this time. “Yes, she’s there. Is she a problem?”

“Not if you don’t mind being followed by beautiful women,” Kurt replied. “Keep an eye on her for us.”

The man smiled. “Gladly,” he said, then added before Kurt could, “without staring.”

“Exactly.”

Kurt left the kiosk. And then he, Joe, and the Trouts went aboard the catamaran.

“What a mess,” Gamay said, hands on her hips.

That it was. Fire had charred and blackened half the boat, melting the fiberglass near the aft, where it must have burned the hottest. Equipment and supplies were strewn everywhere.

“What are we looking for?” Paul asked.

“Anything that tells us what might have happened,” Kurt replied. “Was it an accident or foul play? Were they having continuous problems or did something suddenly go wrong?”

“I’ll find the logbook and the GPS unit,” Paul said.

“I’ll check the cabins,” Gamay said.

Joe moved to the driver’s seat. He flicked a few switches. Nothing happened. “Power’s out.”

Kurt glanced around. The catamaran had two solar panels on the roof, which seemed to be intact. In addition, a small windmill high in the mast was spinning freely. The system should have had juice even if there was no one around to use it.

“Check the cables,” he said.

Joe climbed on the cabin’s roof and found the problem. “Burned through up here,” he said. “I think I can splice it.”

As Joe went to work, Kurt began poking around near the life-raft canisters. Not only hadn’t they been deployed but the casings hadn’t even been unlatched.

“Any sign of water below?” he shouted, thinking maybe a rogue wave had hit them and taken them overboard, though that wouldn’t explain the fire.

“No,” Gamay shouted back. “Dry as dust down here.”

Kurt crouched down to examine the marks left by the fire. The residue was odd and thick, more like sludge than soot.

The boat had an auxiliary engine for use in emergencies or when there was no wind; it lay below deck near the aft. He lifted the deck cover to get a look at it.

“No sign of fire in the engine bay,” he said, holding the cowling open and glancing over the top of it.

The Polynesian brunette had moved closer to them, standing on the main walk beside a small tree near the edge of the dock. She held a phone oddly as if she was taking pictures of the catamaran with it.

Was she a reporter?

Somehow, this mess didn’t strike Kurt as newsworthy unless this woman knew something he didn’t at this point.

Gamay returned from below.

“Anything?” Kurt asked.

She held out a handful of items. “Thalia’s journal,” she said. “Some of Halverson’s notes. A laptop.”

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing major, but the table in the main cabin is broken. And there are dishes and plates smashed in there as well. But the cupboards are latched, so I’m assuming what’s broken was out and probably in use at the time. Also, the bulk food in the pantry is gone, everything except the canned goods.”

For a second Gamay’s words sparked some hope inside Kurt. If a situation had put the catamaran’s crew in survival mode, food would be a priority, but they wouldn’t have left the canned goods behind. More likely, that’s all they would have taken.

Paul made his way back from the bow. He had the GPS unit and the sampling tools. “Nothing out of the ordinary up front, except a deck hose left in the on position.”

“Maybe they used it to fight the fire,” Gamay said.