The revolver roared like a miniature howitzer. The tank disintegrated as a fountain of gasoline showered the deck. Zavala quickly moved the leveled pistol to the left. Three more times he fired. Three more tanks were blown to pieces. The thirty-six gallons of gasoline spread out in an expanding puddle.
Austin ordered the captain to turn up the pressure. Floating on the surface of the moving water, the gasoline surged forward and eddied around the prone forms of the attackers who lay bellydown on the deck where they had flattened out at the first roar of Austin's oversized pistol. They got up, and if they thought about the precariousness of wearing gas-soaked clothes as a puddle of waterborne fuel lapped at their shoes, it was too late to do anything about it. All that was needed to turn the deck into an inferno was a spark, and Zavala was glad to provide one.
Zavala put the empty Bowen aside and picked up the flare gun. Austin had been watching the figures get to their feet.
“Now!” he yelled again.
Zavala pulled the trigger. The glowing projectile streaked down at an angle and skipped across the fleck in a phosphorescent explosion of streamers. The deck erupted in flames, and Zavala threw his arm up for protection against the hot blast.
A moving wall of yellow flame swept toward the blackclad figures who were thrown into relief as the volatile liquid they were standing in ignited like a napalm bomb. The fire quickly enveloped them as it fed on the gas-soaked clothes and transformed the figures into blazing torches. The intense heat sucked the air out of their lungs. Before they could take a step they crumpled to the deck. Bullets from the useless guns flew in all directions through the cloud of billowing black smoke.
Austin hadn't foreseen this dangerous byproduct of his plan. He yelled out to the captain to grab cover, then helped Zavala. They huddled behind the winch drum until the gunfire ceased.
The blaze used up the fuel and blew itself out almost as quickly as it started. Austin told Zavala and the captain to stay put and walked forward. Five steaming corpses lay in fetal position on the deck.
“Everything okay?” Zavala called.
“Yeah, but it's the last time they'll come to one of our barbecues.”
Zavala's voice rang out. “Watch it, Kurt, there's another one.”
Austin automatically reached for his sling only to realize he had left the useless dueling pistol behind. He froze as a shadow detached itself from behind the base of a crane off to one side. He was out in the open. The Bowen was empty. He was dead. He waited for a fusillade of hot lead to cut him down. He'd be a perfect target against the flames flickering on the water's surface. Zavala and the captain would be next.
Nothing happened. The figure was running away toward the starboard side where Austin had first discovered the grappling hooks.
Austin took a step to follow, then stopped. Unarmed, wounded, and just plain worn out, he could only stand there helplessly as an outboard motor coughed into life. He waited until the motor's buzz faded into the distance, then walked back to Zavala and the captain.
“Guess our head count was off,” Zavala said.
“Guess so.” Austin let out the breath he'd been holding. He wanted to lie down and take a nap, but there was one more thing he had to do. Mike was still on the roof of the bridge, and the crew and researchers were barricaded in the bow section.
“You wait here. I'll tell the others they can come up for air.”
He picked his way around the charred bodies and made his way toward the bow section where the crew and scientists were hiding. Austin was not a coldblooded man, but he reserved his compassion for those who deserved it. Moments ago the flesh-and-blood entities that had inhabited these smoking charcoal shells were intent on killing him and his friends and colleagues. Something he could not let happen under any circumstances Particularly to Nina, for whom he was forming a growing attachment. It was as simple as that.
This was obviously the same team that wiped out the archaeological expedition. They had come to finish the job. Austin and the others had just been in the way The assassins had been stopped, but Austin knew that as long as Nina Kirov was alive, this wasn't going to be the end of it.
India
Serpent
11
THE MONSOONS THAT SWEEP ACROSS India from the Arabian Sea drop most of their rain on the mountain range known as the Western Ghats. By the time the moist air currents reach the Deccan in southeast India the downpour has diminished to a mere twenty-five inches. As Professor Arthur Irwin stood in the mouth of the cave looking out at the sheets of water pouring down from the slate-colored sky, he found it hard to believe this was supposedly the same amount of rainfall London gets. The afternoon shower that was just ending would by itself have been enough to float the Houses of Parliament.
The cave opening was on a sloping hillside that overlooked a narrow valley choked by lush greenery. The dense forest south of the Ganges River is the most ancient part of India and was once known as a remote and dangerous place haunted by demons.
Irwin was less worried about demons than the welfare and whereabouts of his party. It had been six hours since Professor Mehta had set off for the village with their taciturn guide. The village was about an hour's hike along a muddy road and across a stream. He hoped the bridge hadn't been knocked out in a sudden flash flood. He sighed. Nothing he could do about it; he would simply have to wait. He had plenty of supplies and much to occupy himself. Irwin went back into the cave, walking between a pair of pillars under a horseshoe arch into the cool central hall or chapel.
Poor Mehta. This was his expedition, after all. He'd been so excited when he called and said, “I need a middleaged Cantabrigian ethnologist for a small expedition. Can you come to India? At my expense.”
“Has the Indian Museum suddenly become less parsimonious?”
“No, but it's not the museum. I'll explain later.”
The Buddhist monks who had carved the cave from sheer rock with pick and ax were following the words of the Master, who advised his followers to take a “rain rest” for meditation and study during the monsoon season.
Doorways on either side of the chapel opened into the spartan monks' cells. The stone couches where Irwin and the other men spread their sleeping bags were not the most comfortable of sleeping platforms, but at least they were dry.
The main hall was built like a Christian basilica. Light from the door reached the far end where the altar would be in a church. Irwin marveled at the artfully sculpted pillars that supported the barrel ceiling. Along the walls were scenes from the life of Buddha and, most interesting to Irwin, court and domestic paintings that portrayed the everyday existence of people and allowed the cave to be dated at about A.D. 500.
The Deccan was famous for its cave monasteries, and as far as anyone knew, all had been discovered. Then this one was found, its entrance hidden behind vegetation. On their first visit Mehta and Irwin were examining the paintings when the guide; who had wandered off, called out to them from an anteroom.
“Come quickly! A man!”
They exchanged glances, thinking that the guide had discovered a skeleton: When they entered the cool dark space and flashed their lights on the comer, they saw a stone figure perhaps five feet long. The man reclined, his head turned to one side. On his belly he held a dishshaped receptacle.
Irwin stared for a moment in disbelief, then went back into the chapel and sat down.
Mehta followed him out. “What is it, Arthur?”
“That figure. Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“No, but obviously you have.”
Irwin tugged nervously at his goatee. “I was traveling in Mexico some, years ago. We stopped at the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza. There's a larger version of this figure there. It's called a chac mool. That dishlike receptacle the figure is holding was used to catch blood during sacrifices.”
“Mexico,” Mehta said without conviction.
Irwin nodded. “When I saw it here, it was so out of time and place . . .”
br /> “I understand, of course. But perhaps you're mistaken. There are a great many similarities in cultures.”
“Maybe. We've got to get it back for authentication.”
Mehta's sad eyes became even sadder. “We haven't even started our work.”
“There's no reason why we can't still do it, but this is important.”
“Of course, Arthur,” Mehta said with resignation, remembering how impulsive Irwin was even whey they were students at Cambridge.
They trekked back to the village and retrieved their truck, which they drove to the nearest town that had a telephone. Mehta suggested they call Time-Quest, the nonprofit foundation that was funding the original expedition, and ask for more money to pay to remove the artifact. He explained that the only strings attached were that Time-Quest be notified of any significant find.
After a lengthy conversation, Mehta hung up and smiled. “They said we can hire some villagers but to wait until they get someone to us with the money. I told them the monsoon season is almost here. They said forty-eight hours.”
They went back to the cave and worked at the site photographing and cataloging. Two days later Mehta and the guide set off for the village to meet the Time-Quest representative. Then the rains came.
Irwin worked on his notes. When the others hadn't arrived by dusk, he cooked curried rice and beans. It grew dark, and it looked as if he would be spending the night alone. So he was pleased when he heard a quiet footfall as he finished washing the dishes with spring water from a cistern.
“At last, my friends,” he said over his shoulder. “I'm afraid you've missed dinner, but I might be persuaded to cook more rice.”
There was no reply He turned and saw a figure standing just out of range of the light cast by the lamp. Thinking he might be a villager sent by Mehta, Irwin said, “You startled me. Did Mehta send you with a message?”
In silent reply, the figure took a step forward. Metal gleamed in the stranger's hand, and in the last terrifying moments of his life Irwin realized what had happened to Mehta and the guide, even if he didn't know why.
China
Serpent
12
HOW FAR ARE WE FROM THE SITE, CHANG?"
The wiry man standing at the riverboat's long tiller held up two fingers.
“Two miles or two hours?” Jack Quinn said.
A gaptoothed grin appeared on the steersman's wizened fare. He shrugged and pointed to his ear. Either the question had exceeded his meager grasp of English or he simply couldn't hear over the racket generated by an antique Evinrude outboard motor.
Worn valves, defective muffler, and a loose housing that vibrated like a drumhead combined in an uproar that echoed off the riverbanks and drowned out all attempts at verbal communication.
Quinn ran his fingers through thinning black hair and adjusted his stocky body in a vain attempt to locate a more comfortable position for his posterior. It was a lost cause. The low-slung, narrow-beamed craft was shaped vaguely like a surfboard and partially covered by a rough deck whose sunsplintered surface discouraged sitting.
Quinn finally gave up. He hunched his shoulders and stared with glazed eyes at the passing scenery. They had left the rice paddies and tea plantations behind them. Occasionally they passed a fishing village and a grazing water buffalo, but soon only golden fields rolled off to mistshrouded mountains in the distance. The beauty of China was lost on Quinn. He could think only of Ferguson, his project manager.
The first message from Ferguson had been exciting.
“Found many clay soldiers. This could be bigger than Van.”
Quinn knew right away that Ferguson was talking about the seven-thousand-strong army of terracotta soldiers discovered in an imperial mausoleum near the Chinese city of Van. It was the sort of news Quinn liked to relay to the governing board of the East Asia Foundation, which he served as executive director.
The foundation was set up by a group of wealthy patrons to promote eastwest understanding and atone for the opium trade. It was also a tax writeoff so those living comfortably off the fortunes their forebears made hooking hundreds of thousands of Chinese on drugs could enjoy their wealth to the fullest.
As part of its program the foundation sponsored archaeological digs in China. These were popular with the board because they cost the foundation nothing, being largely subsidized by enthusiastic amateurs who paid money to participate, and because they sometimes made the front page of The New York Times.
Quinn would visit a site when he could be sure of favorable publicity, but it usually took a lot to pry him from the mahogany and leather comfort of his New York office.
The second message from the field was even better than the first.
“Found exciting artifact. Details to follow”
Quinn had already primed his newspaper and TV contacts when the third message arrived.
Artifact is Mayan!"
Before taking the foundation job, Quinn had run a university museum and had a sketchy knowledge of ancient cultures. He fired off a reply to Ferguson: “Mayan is not Chinese. Impossible.”
A few days later he heard from Ferguson again. “Impossible but true. No kidding.”
That night Quinn packed a bag and took the next flight to Hong Kong, where he caught a train to the interior. After a bus ride of several hours he arrived at the river just in time to hitch a ride with Chiang. In addition to keeping the expedition supplied, Chiang served as postman, running communications to a telegraph office, which explained why the messages were so agonizingly slow.
Quinn learned that Chiang had visited the site a few days before, which must have been when he picked up Ferguson's last letter. Quinn's anger had been building during the course of his long, hard journey. It was only a question of whether he would fire Ferguson before or after he threw him in the river. As they neared the site, Quinn began to wonder if Ferguson had simply gone raving mad. Maybe it was something in the water.
Quinn still hadn't decided on a course of action when the boat angled in and bumped up against the shore where the banking had been worn down by foot traffic. Chiang tied up at a post stuck in the ground, then he and Quinn both grabbed a couple of boxes with supplies and began to walk inland.
As they followed a path through high yellow grass, Quinn asked, “How far?”
One finger. Quinn figured it to be one hour or one mile. He was wrong on both counts. One minute later they came upon an area where the grass had been tramped down in a more or less circular shape.
Chiang put down his load and gestured at Quinn to do the same.
“Where's the camp?” Quinn said, looking for people or tents.
Chiang's face was creased in a puzzled frown. Tugging at his scraggly beard, he pointed emphatically to the ground.
End of a perfect day Quinn fumed. He was tired and dirty, his stomach was roiling like a boiled pot, and now his guide was lost. Chiang said something in Chinese and motioned for Quinn to follow. After a few minutes' walk he stopped and pointed to the ground. A couple of acres of dirt had been turned over.
Quinn walked along the perimeter of the disturbed soil until his eye caught a roundish object protruding from the dirt. He dug away at it with his hands and after a few minutes revealed the head and shoulders of a terracotta soldier. He dug some more and found other soldiers.
This must be the site, but there should be about a dozen people here. Where the hell was everybody? Chiang glanced fearfully around him. “Devils,” he said, and ' without another word trotted back toward the river.
The air grew colder as if a cloud had passed over the sun. Quinn realized he was all alone. The only sound was the snakelike rustle of the breeze through the grass. He took one last look around and dashed toward the retreating figure, leaving behind the ranks of silent soldiers entombed in the earth.
FairFax County, Virginia
13 IN THE SULTRY STILLNESS OF THE Virginia morning Austin shoved off from the boat ramp, wrapped his thick fingers around the carbonfiber oar
handles, and with a long smooth pull sent his arrow-slim racing scull darting into the sparkling waters of the Potomac River.
Sculling on the Potomac was a daily ritual Austin followed faithfully in between assignments. As the doctor ordered, he had given his left side a rest. Once the stitches healed he began his own therapy regimen using the weights and machines in his exercise room and daily swims in his pool. He had gradually increased the demands on his body until he considered it safe to row without tearing newly mended muscle.
The time to test the regimen came on a particularly lovely day when the siren call of the river became impossible to resist. He hauled his sleek twenty-one-foot-long Maas Aero racing scull from the lower level of the boathouse he'd converted into his home just below the palisades in Fairfax County. Jockeying the light shell down the ramp and into the water was not difficult. The real adventure was getting into the slender boat without tipping it over.
His first attempt to row was pure disaster. The Concept 11 composite oars were featherlight, but with their ninefoot length and the weight and pressure of the blades against the water, Austin took only a few painful strokes before turning back in a cold sweat. His side felt as if a meat hook hung off it. He deliberately capsized the shell near shore, staggered into the house, and stood in front of the medicine cabinet looking at his ashen reflection as he popped painkillers that only slightly dulled the agony. He waited a few days then tried again. He favored his right arm, and the uneven strokes tended to send the scull into an unpretty series of connected arcs, but at least he was moving. Within days he could row without gritting his teeth.
Eventually the stiffness lessened. Today the only reminder of the assassin's lucky shot was the twinge he experienced during his warmup stretches. He felt good from the moment he slipped into the open cockpit, tucked his feet into the dogs bolted to the foot rests, and pushed the sliding seat back and forth a few times on its twin runners to limber up his abdominal muscles. He adjusted the “buttons,” the collars that rest against the outrigger oarlocks, to make sure they were positioned to deliver the maximum power with each stroke.