Lost City
“He turned out to have a conscience?”
“He turned out to be a fool,” she said, with undisguised vehemence. “Jules saw our findings as a boon to mankind. He tried to persuade me and others in the family to stop the march toward war and release the formula. I led the family against him. He fled the country in his airplane. He carried papers that would have implicated the family in the war plot and intended to use them as blackmail, I suppose, if he had not been intercepted and shot down.”
“Why did he take the helmet?”
“It was a symbol of authority, passed down to the family leader of each generation. He lost his right to the helmet by his actions, and it should have passed to me.”
Austin leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “So Jules is gone, along with the threat that the family's war scheme will be exposed. He was in no position to stop your research.”
“He had already stopped it. He destroyed the computations for the basic formula and etched them into the helmet. Clever. Too clever. We had to start all over again. There were a million possible combinations. We kept the mutants alive with the hope that one day they might reveal the secrets of the formula. The work was interrupted by wars, the Depression. We were close to succeeding during World War Two when our laboratory was bombed by Allied planes. It set back our research by decades.”
Austin chuckled. “You're saying that the wars you promoted hurt your research. The irony must not have escaped you.”
“I wish it had.”
“In the meantime, you got older.”
“Yes, I got older,” she said with uncharacteristic sadness. “I lost my beauty and became a crackling old crone. Still, I persisted. We made some progress in slowing aging, which I shared with Emil, but the Grim Reaper was catching up with us. We were so close. We tried to create the right enzyme, but with limited success. Then one of my scientists heard about the Lost City enzyme. It seemed to be the missing link. I bought the company doing research on the enzyme, and enlisted Dr. MacLean and his colleagues to pursue round-the-clock research. We built a submarine that could harvest the enzyme and set up a testing laboratory.”
“Why did you have the scientists at MacLean's company killed?”
“We're not the first to dispose of ^scientific team so they won't talk about their research. The British government is-still investigating the deaths of scientists who worked on a Star Wars missile defense project. We had created a new batch of mutants and the scientists threatened to go public with the news, so we got rid of them.”
“The only problem with your scientists is that they hadn't really finished their work,” Austin said. “Pardon me, but this operation sounds like a clown convention.”
“Not an inaccurate analogy. I made the mistake of letting Emil handle things. It was a big mistake. Once I took control again, I brought back Dr. MacLean to reconstitute a research team. They managed to recoup much of the work.”
“Was Emil responsible for flooding the glacier tunnel?”
“Mea culpa again. I had not brought him into my confidence about the true significance of the helmet, so he never tried to find it before flooding the tunnel.”
“Yet another mistake?”
“Luckily, Mademoiselle Labelle removed the helmet, and it is now in my possession. It provided the missing link and we closed down the lab. So you see, we make mistakes, but we learn by them. Apparently, you don't. You escaped from here once, yet you came back to certain disaster.”
“I'm not certain that's the case.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you heard from Emil lately?”
“No.” For the first time there was doubt in her face. “Where is he?”
“Let us go and I'll be glad to tell you,” Austin said.
“What are you saying?”
“I stopped off at the glacier before coming here. Emil is now in custody.”
“A shame,” she said with a flip of her fingers. “Too bad you didn't kill him.”
“You're bluffing. This is your son we're talking about.”
“You needn't remind me of my familial obligations,” she said coldly. “I don't care what happens to Emil or his cretinous friend Sebastian. Emil planned to usurp me. I would have had to destroy him myself. If you've killed him, you did me a favor.”
Austin felt as if he had just been dealt a pair of deuces in a high-stakes poker game.
“I should have known that mother snakes sometimes eat their eggs.”
“You can't insult me with your silly taunts. Despite its internal friction, our family has grown ever more powerful through the centuries.”
“And created a river of blood in the process.”
“What do we care for blood? It is the most expendable commodity on earth.”
“Some people might argue with that.”
“You have no idea what you have gotten yourself into,” Madame Fauchard said, with a sneer. “You think you know us? There is layer upon layer invisible to you. Our family has its origins in the mists of time. While your forebears were clawing at rotten logs searching for grubs, the first Spear had already fashioned a flint point, attached it to a shaft and traded it to his neighbor. We are of no nation and every nation. We sold weapons to the Greeks against the Persians and the Persians against the Greeks. The Roman legions marched across Europe wielding broadswords of our design. Now we will forge time, bending it to our will as we once did steel.”
“And if you live another hundred or even a thousand years, then what?”
“It is not how long you live but what you do with your time. Why don't you join me, monsieur? I admire your resourcefulness and courage. Maybe I could even find a place for your friends. Think of it. Immortality! Deep down, isn't that your most fervent wish?”
“Your son asked me the same question.”
“And?”
A cold smile crossed Austin's face. “My only wish is to send you and your pals to join him in hell.”
“So you did kill him!” Madame Fauchard clapped her hands in light applause. “Well done, Monsieur Austin, as I would expect. You must have known I wasn't serious with my proposal. If there is one thing I have learned in a century, it is that men of conscience are always a danger. Very well, you and your friends wanted to be part of my masque, so it will be. In return for removing my son, I will not kill you right away. I will allow you to be present at the dawn of a new day on earth.” She reached into the bodice of her dress and extracted a small amber phial, which she held above her head. “Behold, the elixir of life.”
Austin was thinking about something else: MacLean His eyes glimmered with a faint light of understanding as he pondered the scientist's last words.
“Your mad scheme will never work,” Austin said quietly. Racine glared at Austin and her lips curled in contempt. “Who is going to stop me? You? You dare to pit your puny intellect against the lessons of a hundred years?”
She uncorked the phial, which she put to her lips, and drank the contents. Her face seemed to glow with an aura. Austin watched in fascination for a moment, aware that he was witnessing a miracle, but he quickly snapped out of his spell. Racine noticed him push the timing button on his watch.
“You might as well throw that timepiece away,” she said derisively. “In my world, time will have no meaning.”
“Pardon me if I ignore your suggestion. In my world, time still has a great deal of meaning.”
She regarded Austin with an arrogant tilt of her head, then signaled Marcel, who came over. Together with the other prisoners, they marched to the door that led down to the catacombs.
As the thick wooden door swung open and Austin and the others were prodded into the depths at gunpoint, the warning from the French pilot flashed through his mind. The Fauchards have a past.
Then he looked at his watch and prayed to the gods who look over fools and adventurers, often one and the same. With any kind of luck, this evil blight of a family might not have a future.
&n
bsp; RACINE GRABBED a torch from the wall and plunged through the doorway. Reveling in the freedom of her newfound youth, she bounded gracefully down the sjairs leading into the catacombs. Her schoolgirl enthusiasm stood out in sharp contrast to the morbid surroundings, with their dripping walls and lichen-splotched ceilings.
Behind Racine came Skye, followed by Austin and a guard who watched his every move, then Zavala and another guard. Last in line was Marcel, ever watchful, like a trail boss keeping his eye out for straying cattle. The procession moved past the boneyard and the dungeons, and then it descended staircases that plunged guards and prisoners ever deeper into the catacombs. The air grew more stale and hard to breathe.
A narrow, barrel-roofed passageway about a hundred feet long led off from the last set of stairs and ended at a stone door. Two guards rolled the door aside. It opened quietly, as if the rollers had been well oiled. As the prisoners were marched along another corridor, Austin assessed their options and decided that they had none.
At least for now. The Trouts had instructions to stand by until he called.
He could kick himself for assuming too much. He had miscalculated badly. Racine was ruthless, as shown by the fact that she had had her brother killed, but he never dreamed she would be so callous about the fate of her son. He glanced ahead at Skye. She seemed to be bearing up well, too busy brushing cobwebs out of her hair to dwell on her long-term prospects. He only hoped that she would not have to pay for his miscalculation.
The passageway ended in another stone door, which was also rolled aside. Racine stepped through the opening and waved her torch in the air so that the flame crackled and snapped. The dancing torchlight illuminated a stone slab about two feet wide that seemed to jut out into empty space from the edge of a precipice.
“I call this the ”Bridge of Sighs,“ ” Racine said, her voice echoing and reechoing off the deep walls of the chasm. “It's much older than the one in Venice. Listen.” The wind wailed up from below like a chorus of lost souls and tousled her long flaxen hair. “It's best not to pause.”
She dashed across the slab with seemingly reckless abandon. Skye hesitated. Austin took her hand and, together, they shuffled across the narrow bridge toward Racine's fluttering torch. The wind tugged at their clothes. The distance was about thirty feet, but it might as well have been thirty miles.
Zavala was a natural athlete, who had boxed in college, and he strode across with the surefootedness of a high-wire walker. The guards, and even Marcel, took their time as they made their way across and it was obvious they didn't like this part of their duty.
The guards unlocked a thick wooden door and the procession stepped out of the catacombs into an open space. The air was dry and heavily scented with a strong piney smell. They were in an aisle
around a dozen feet across. Racine walked over to a low wall between two massive square columns and beckoned for the others to follow.
The walkway was actually the top tier of an amphitheater. Three more tiers of seats lit by a ring of torchlight descended to an arena. The seats were occupied by hundreds of silent spectators.
Austin gazed through an arch at the vast open space. “You never cease to surprise, Madame Fauchard.”
“Few strangers have ever seen the sanctum sancto rum of the Fauchards.”
Skye's fears had been momentarily overshadowed by her scientific curiosity. “This is an exact replica of the Coliseum,” she said with an analytical eye. “The orders of columns, the arcade, everything is the same except for the scale.”
“That should come as no surprise,” Racine said. “It's a smaller version of the Coliseum, built by a homesick Roman proconsul for Gaul who missed the amusements of home. When my ancestors were searching for a site to build the chateau, they thought that by having the great house rest on a place where gladiators shed their blood they could fuse with the martial spirit. My family made a few modifications, such as adding an ingenious ventilation system to bring air to this place, but otherwise all is as they found it.”
Austin was puzzled by the spectators. There should have been a murmuring of voices, a rustling or coughing. But the silence was palpable.
“Who are all these people?” he asked Racine.
“Let me introduce you,” she replied.
They descended the first of several crumbling interior staircases. At ground level, a guard unbolted an iron gate and the group passed through a short tunnel. Racine explained that it was the access for the gladiators and other entertainment. The tunnel led to a circular arena. Fine white sand covered the floor.
A carved marble dais about five feet high stood at the center of the arena. Steps had been cut into the side of the rectangular platform. Austin was studying the stolid faces of a contingent of guards who stood at attention around the arena's perimeter when he heard a gasp from Skye, who hadn't let go of his hand since crossing the chasm. She squeezed his fingers in a viselike grip.
He followed her gaze to the lowest row of seats. The yellow torchlight fell upon skeletal grins and parchment yellow skin and he realized he was staring at an audience of mummies. The dried bodies filled row after row, tier after tier, staring down at the arena with long-dead eyes.
“It's all right,” he said evenly. “They won't hurt you.” Zavala was awestruck. “This is nothing but a big tomb,” he said. “I'll admit I've played to livelier audiences,” Austin said. He turned to Madame Fauchard. “Joe's right. Your sanctum sancto rum is a glorified mausoleum.”
“To the contrary,” Racine replied. “You're standing on the family's most sacred ground. It was there on that podium that I challenged Jules in 1914. And here is where he stood and told us that he would abide by the wishes of the family council. Had not Emil failed, I would have placed my brother's body with the others so he could see my triumph.”
Austin tried to imagine Racine's brother making his case for mankind to deaf ears.
“It must have taken a great deal of courage for Jules to defy your murderous family,” Austin said.
Racine ignored his comment. She pirouetted on her heel like a ballerina, seemingly at home in this dread place of death, and pointed out several family members who had rejected Jules's appeal so long ago. “Pardon me if I don't get misty-eyed,” Austin said. “From the look on their faces, they still haven't gotten over your brother's defection.”
“He was not just defying us; he was going against five thousand years of family history. When we returned to France with the Crusaders, we moved our ancestors here to be with us. It took years, with long caravans of the dead winding their way thousands of miles from the Middle East, until, at last, the mummies were brought to this place of rest.”
“Why go through so much trouble for a bunch of skin and bones?”
“Our family has always dreamed of eternal life. Like the Egyptians, they believed that if the body were preserved, life would go on after death. Mummification was a crude attempt at cryogenics. The early embalmers used pine resin rather than liquid oxygen as they do now.” She looked past Austin's shoulder. “I see our guests have begun to arrive. We can begin the ceremony.”
Ghostly figures dressed in white robes were filing into the arena. The group was equally divided between men and women. There were about two dozen people, and their white hair and wrinkled faces seemed only decades removed from the silent mummies. As the figures came into the arena, they kissed Madame Fauchard's hand and gathered in a circle around the dais.
“You already know these people,” Racine said to Austin. “You met them at my party. They are the descendants of the old arms families.”
“They looked better in costume,” Austin said.
“The ravages of time are kind to no one, but they will be the elite who will rule the world with me. Marcel will be in charge of our private army.”
Austin let out a deep laugh. Startled faces turned in his direction.
“So this is what this insanity is all about? World domination?”
Racine stared at Austin like
an angry Medusa. “You find this humorous?” she said.
“You're not the first megalomaniac to talk about taking over the world,” Austin said. "Hitler and Genghis Khan were way ahead of
you. The only thing they accomplished was to shed a lot of blood, nothing more."
Racine regained her composure. “But think of how the world would be today if they had been immortal.”
“It's not a world most people would care to live in.”
"You're wrong. Dostoyevsky was right when he said mankind will always strive to find someone new to worship. We will be welcomed as saviors once the world's oceans have been turned into fetid swamps.
Surely someone from NUMA must know about the undersea plague that is spreading through your oceanic realm like a green cancer.“ ”Gorgonweed?"
“Is that what you call it? A colorful name, and most apt.” “The epidemic is not general knowledge. How did you hear about it?”
"You pathetic man! I created it. Long life alone would not give me the power I desired. My scientists discovered the mutant weed as a by-product of their work. When they brought their findings to me,
I knew it was the perfect vehicle for my plan. I turned the Lost City into a breeding ground for this noxious weed."
Austin had to admire the complex workings of her villainous mind. She had been one step ahead of everyone.
“That's why you wanted the Woods Hole expedition wiped out.” “Of course. I couldn't have those blundering fools jeopardizing my plans.”
“You want to become empress of a world in chaos?”
“That's the point. Once countries are in bankruptcy, suffering from famine and political anarchy, their rulers impotent, I will come to remove this scourge from the world.” “You're saying you can kill the weed?”
"As easily as I can kill you and your friends. The 'death-bound' will come to worship the immortals who will be created here tonight.
These people will go back to their respective countries and gradually assume the mantle of power. We will be superior beings whose wisdom will be a welcome relief to democracy, with its fickleness and demands on the ordinary people. We will be gods!"