and Austin wasn't surprised when they heard Emil's voice behind them eerily exhorting his men on.
Austin and Zavala had been proceeding with haste tempered with caution, but they picked up the pace, following a bewildering course of lefts and rights. Austin was acting mostly on gut instinct, trusting the internal compass that he carried around in his head and using a crude form of land-based dead reckoning.
Despite Austin's fine-tuned sense of direction, the detours took their toll. He lost his bearings completely. Emil's voice was getting closer. Austin was as close to despair as he had ever been when they came to an intersection of four tunnels. Austin's coral-blue eyes probed the gloom.
“This looks familiar,” Zavala said.
“We're near the mid station control booth,” Austin said.
They entered the right-hand tunnel that would take them back to Fifi, only to stop after taking a few steps. Rough male voices could be heard coming in their direction. They ran back to the intersection and tried going straight, but a sluice gate barred their way. They came back to the intersection. The distant sound of booted footfalls was coming from the passageway at the left.
“We're surrounded,” Zavala said.
A desperate plan was hatching in Austin's brain. He turned into the left-hand tunnel.
Zavala held back. “Hold on, Kurt. Fauchard's goons are coming that way, too.”
“Trust me,” Austin said. “But do it fast. We don't have a second to spare.”
Zavala shrugged and sprinted into the dimly lit passageway a step behind Austin. He mumbled to himself in Spanish as they splashed through the puddle-covered floor. He had worked with Austin on many missions since joining the NUMA Special Assignments Team. Zavala had developed an abiding faith in Austin's judgment. There were times, however, like the present, when Austin's behavior seemed completely irrational, and that confidence was put to the test.
Zavala pictured them bumping into Fauchard's thugs in a deadly version of a Keystone Kops silent movie. But they reached the control booth unimpeded and scrambled up the ladder onto the catwalk. Fauchard's men materialized in the dim tunnel and gave out with a hoarse cry of triumph at having brought their game to roost. They unleashed a blistering attack on the booth.
Bullets pinged and ricocheted off the metal catwalk, the tunnel walls amplifying the racket to D-day proportions. Austin dove into the control booth, pulled Zavala in behind him and slammed the door shut. The rest of Fauchard's men heard the gunfire, came running and joined in the turkey shoot. They peppered the booth with hundreds of rounds. The windows disintegrated and the sustained barrage of lead threatened to punch through the steel walls.
Austin crawled across the shards of glass littering the floor, got up on his knees and, keeping his head low, ran his hands onto the control panel keyboard. A diagram of the tunnel system appeared on the screen. The racket of bullets slamming into the booth was deafening and Austin tried to stay focused. He typed out several commands and was gratified when he saw the colors change on the diagram.
Zavala started to rise, hoping to get off a shot or two, but Austin pulled him down.
“You'll get your head shot off,” he yelled over the sound of gunfire.
“Better than getting my ass shot off,” Zavala said.
“Wait,” Austin said.
“Wait? For what}”
“Gravity.”
Zavala's reply was drowned out by a new volley. Then the gunfire stopped abruptly and they could hear Emil's mocking voice.
“Austin! Are you and your friend enjoying the view?”
Austin put his finger to his lips.
When Austin didn't answer, Emil taunted, “Don't tell me you're shy. I want you to listen to the plans my mother has for your lady friend. She's going to give her a face-lift. You won't recognize her when she's through with the transformation.”
Austin had had enough of Fauchard. He signaled for Zavala to hand over his gun and moved closer to the control booth wall. Disregarding his own advice, he squeezed the trigger until it was a feather's touch away, then he popped up like a hand puppet, fired once and ducked down. He had honed in on Fauchard's voice, but his aim was off. Fauchard and his men scattered in search of cover. Once they saw that there was no follow-up attack, they again sprayed the booth with lead.
“You really showed them that time,” “Zavala yelled over the racket. ”Emil was starting to irk me.“ ”Did you get him?"
“Emil? Unfortunately, no. I missed Sebastian, too. But I nailed the guy standing next to him.”
“That is unfortunate,” Zavala said, raising his voice a few decibels. “Brilliant strategy, though. Maybe they'll run out of bullets.”
Bullets were starting to punch through the floor of the booth. Austin knew he had to stop the shooting and buy time. “Do you have a white hanky?” he asked Zavala.
“This is a funny time to be blowing your nose,” Zavala said, ducking as a round ricocheted off the wall. He saw from Austin's face that he wasn't joking and said, “I've got my Mexican 'do-rag.” " Zavala fished his multipurpose red bandanna out of his back pocket and handed it over.
“This will do,” Austin said, tying the bandanna to the gun barrel. He poked the impromptu flag out the door and waved it.
The gunfire again stopped. Emil's sharp-edged laughter echoed throughout the tunnel.
“What is that rag, Austin?” he said. “I'm no bull to be taunted by your antics.”
“I didn't have a white flag,” Austin shouted down.
“A white flag? Don't tell me you and your friend are prepared to come to terms with your fate?”
Austin cocked his ear, listening. He thought he heard a distant whispering, like the surf along the shore. But his ears were still ringing from the gunfire and he couldn't be sure.
“You misunderstood, Fauchard. I'm not ready to surrender.”
“Then why are you waving that ridiculous piece of cloth?”
“I wanted to say good-bye before the freight train comes through.”
“Have you gone mad, Austin?”
The whispering had become a low rumble.
Emil gave the order to start firing again.
Bullets whined and splattered around their heads in a nonstop crescendo. The concentrated gunfire was punching through the walls. In another few minutes, the booth would beAno more protection than the slice of Swiss cheese that it was starting to resemble.
Then the firing stopped abruptly.
The gunmen had felt the vibration. With the guns silent, they, too, had picked up the rumble of distant thunder.
Austin got to his feet and stepped out onto the catwalk. Emil had a puzzled look on his face. He looked up, saw Austin staring down at him and knew he had been bested.
“You've won for now, Austin,” he yelled up, shaking his fist in defiance, “but you haven't heard the last from the Fauchards.”
Austin grinned, stepped back into the booth, grabbed onto one of the metal legs supporting the console table and told Zavala to do the same.
Emil shouted one last oath, and then he turned and he and his gang of thugs ran for their lives. Sebastian lurched after the others.
It was too late.
Seconds later, the wave hit Fauchard and his men with an explosion of blue water that swept them away like a giant broom. Heads bobbed for an instant in the cold foam, arms flailed ineffectually. Sebastian's face was pale against the dark water. Then he was gone along with Emil and his men.
Unlike their previous experience, when Austin and Zavala stayed high and dry inside the undamaged watertight booth, this time the cascading water flowed in through the broken windows, flooded the control room and tried to pull Austin and Zavala from their anchor. They hung on with every ounce of strength.
Just when their lungs were ready to burst, the main force of the wave spent itself and the water began to subside.
They stood on shaky legs and peered through the jagged-edged framework, which was all that was left of the window.
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Zavala looked down on the river flowing under their feet, amazement on his dark features. “How did you know that high tide was coming?”
“I opened and closed a few sluice gates in another part of the system and diverted water this way.”
Zavala grinned and said, “I hope that Fauchard and his pals are all washed up.”
“My guess is that they're feeling a bit flushed by now,” Austin said. Miraculously, the control monitor was in a secure housing and had escaped damage. Austin punched in some keyboard commands. The water level dropped until the rushing river became a narrow stream. Both men were shivering in their wet clothes by then. They had to get out of the tunnels to someplace dry and warm before hypothermia set in. They climbed down the ladder. This time, no one tried to stop them.
They plodded through the tunnels with no idea of where they were going. Their teeth had started to chatter from the cold. The batteries in their flashlights were getting low, but they kept on because
they had no alternative. Just when they were about to give up all hope, they saw an object ahead.
Zavala yelled with joy. “Fifi!”
The Citroen had been picked up by the wave and deposited sideways in the tunnel. It was covered with mud and the paint was scraped off in a dozen places where it must have banged against the walls. Austin opened the door. The map was floating in a few inches of water on the floor. The key was still in the ignition. He tried to start the car but the engine wouldn't turn over.
Zavala fiddled around in the hood and told Austin to try it again.
This time the motor started.
Zavala got in and said, “Loose battery cable.”
It took a half hour of driving through the tunnel grid before they figured out where they were, then another half hour to find their way back through the system. The car was running on gas vapors when they saw gray daylight ahead, and moments later they drove out of the mountain.
“What next?” Zavala said.
Austin didn't even have to think about it. “Chateau Fauchard.”
WHEN SKYE WAS a girl her father had taken her to the Cathedrale de Notre Dame and she had seen her first gargoyle. The grotesque face leering down from the ramparts looked like a monster from her worst nightmares. She had calmed down after her father explained that gargoyles were nothing more than rain spouts Skye had wondered why such talented sculptors could not have fashioned things of beauty, but she had put aside her childhood fears. Now, as she blinked her eyes open, the gargoyle of her restless dreams was back. Even worse, it was talking to her.
“Welcome back, mademoiselle,” said the cruel mouth only inches away. “We have missed you.”
The face belonged to Marcel, the bullet-headed man in charge of the private army at Chateau Fauchard. He spoke again.
“I'll be back in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Do not keep me waiting.”
She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea swept through her body. When she looked again, he was gone.
Skye glanced around and saw that she was in the chamber where she'd changed into the cat costume for the Fauchard masquerade ball. She recalled walking up to her apartment building. She dug deeper into her recollection and remembered the lost American couple, the bee sting on her backside and the slide into oblivion.
Dear God, she had been fydnapped.
She sat up in the bed and swung her legs over the side. There was a brassy taste in her mouth, probably the remnant of the chemical that had been injected into her veins to render her unconscious. She took a deep breath and stood up. The room began to swirl around her. She staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the sink.
Skye gazed at her reflection, hardly recognizing the face in the mirror. Her face was ghostly pale, her hair lank and straggly. She felt better after she had rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. She brushed her hair back with her fingers and patted the wrinkles out of her clothes as best she could.
She was ready a few minutes later when Marcel opened the door without knocking and beckoned for her to follow. They walked down the long carpeted corridors, eventually passing through the gauntlet of faces lining the walls of the portrait gallery. She looked for the painting of Jules Fauchard, but it was gone, leaving only blank wall in its place. Then they were standing outside Madame Fauchard's office.
Marcel gave Skye an odd smile, and then he knocked gently and opened the door. He pushed Skye inside. Skye saw that she was not alone. A blond woman with her back to Skye sat at Madame Fauchard's desk, staring out the window. She swiveled around in the chair at the click of the door shutting and stared at Skye.
The woman was in her forties, with creamy skin set off by probing gray eyes. She parted her red, almost voluptuous lips. “Good afternoon, mademoiselle. We've awaited your return. You left in such a spectacular fashion.”
Skye's mind reeled. She wondered if she were still feeling the aftereffects of the knockout drug.
“Sit,” the woman said, pointing to a chair in front of the desk.
Skye obeyed, moving like a zombie.
The woman regarded Skye with amusement.
“What's wrong? You seem distracted.”
Skye was more confused than distracted. The voice that came from the woman's mouth was that of Madame Fauchard. It had lost its cracked, old lady quality, but there was no mistaking the hard-edged words. Crazy thoughts ran through Skye's mind. Did Racine have a daughter? Maybe this was a clever ventriloquist.
Finally, she found her own voice.
“Is this some sort of trick?”
“No trick at all. What you see is what there is.”
“Madame Fauchard?” The words came out falteringly.
“One and the same, my dear,” she said with a wicked smile. “Only now I am young and you are old.”
Skye was still skeptical. “You must give me the name of your plastic surgeon.”
Heat came to the woman's eyes, but only for a moment. She rose from her chair and came around to the other side of the desk with silken movements. She leaned over, took Skye's hand and placed it on her cheek.
“Tell me if you still think this is the work of a surgeon.”
The flesh was warm and firm, and the skin was creamy without a trace of wrinkles.
“Impossible,” Skye said in a whisper.
Madame Fauchard let the hand drop, then stood upright and returned to her chair. She tented her long, slender fingers so that Skye could see that they were no longer gnarled.
“Don't worry,” she said. “You're not going mad. I am the same person who invited you and Mr. Austin to my costume party. He's well, I trust.”
“I don't know,” Skye said, guardedly. “I haven't seen him in days. How ”
“How did I turn from a cackling old crone into a young beauty?” she said, a dreamy look in her eyes. “A long, long story. It would not have been so long had it not been for Jules absconding with the helmet,” she said, spitting out the name with bitterness. “We could have saved decades of research.”
“I don't understand.”
“You're the antique arms expert,” Madame Fauchard said. “Tell me what you know about the helmet.”
“It's very old. Five hundred years or possibly older. The steel was of extremely high quality. It may have been made with iron from a meteorite.”
Madame Fauchard arched an eyebrow.
“Very good. The helmet was made with star metal and this strength saved the lives of more than one Fauchard in battle. It was melted and recast through the centuries and was passed down through the family to the true leaders of the Fauchards. It rightfully belonged to me, not my brother Jules.”
The words took a second to sink in, but when they did, Skye said, “Your brother?”
“That's right. Jules was a year younger than me.”
Skye tried to do the calculation, but her thoughts were whirling around in her head. “That would make you ”
“Never ask a lady her age,” Madame Fauchard said, with a languid
smile. “But I'll save you the trouble. I'm past the century mark.”
Skye shook her head in disbelief. “I don't believe it.”
“I'm hurt by your skepticism,” Madame Fauchard said, but her expression belied her statement. “Would you like to hear the details?”
Skye was torn between her scientific curiosity and her revulsion.
“I saw what happened to Cavendish because he knew too much of your business.”
“Lord Cavendish was a bore as well as a blabbermouth. But you flatter yourself, my dear. When you're as old as I am, you learn to keep things in perspective. You're no good to me dead. Live bait is always more effective.”
“Bait. For what?”
“Not what. Whom. Kurt Austin, of course.”
SHORTLY AFTER FIVE O'CLOCK, the workers at the Fauchard vineyards ended the day that had started with the rising sun. As the men headed back to their crude do/mitories, a fleet of dump trucks laden with newly picked grapes rolled along the dirt roads that ran through the rolling hills and converged on the gate in the electrified fence. A bored guard waved the line through the gate and the trucks headed to a shed where the grapes would be offloaded for crushing, fermentation and bottling.
As the last truck slowed to a halt near the shed, two figures jumped off and darted into the woods. Satisfied that they had not been seen, Austin and Zavala brushed the dirt off their clothes and tried to wipe the grape juice off their faces and hands, but it only made the stain worse.
Zavala spit out a mouthful of damp earth. “That's the last time I let Trout talk me into one of his crazy schemes. We look like a purple version of the Blue Man Group!”
Austin was picking twigs out of his hair. "You must admit it was
a stroke of genius. Who'd expect anyone to disguise themselves as a bunch of grapes?"
Trout's plan was deceptively simple. He and Gamay had taken another tour of the vineyards. This time Austin and Zavala were hunkered down in the backseat. The Trouts stopped and got out to say hello to Marchand, the foreman they had met on their first visit to the Fauchard vineyards. As they chatted, the dump truck pulled up in front of the car. Austin and Zavala waited until the truck was loaded, then they slipped out of the car, climbed onto the back of the moving vehicle and burrowed into the grapes.